• 


THE  LIBRARY 


THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CALIFORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


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JT 


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" 


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POEMS 


BY 

CLINT    PARKHURST 

OF      IOWA 


CHICAGO  : 

THE  WESTERN  NEWS  COMPANY. 
1874. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1874,  by 

CLINT  PABKHUBST, 
to  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


fs 


SEVENTEENTH    ARMY    CORPS, 

BY   ONE   WHO    SHARED   THEIR   VICISSITUDES 
AND   GLORIES. 


759475 


CONTENTS 


PAGE. 

THE  BARBARIAN 13 

PAULINE _ 19 

LOST  ON  THE  BORDER 33 

A  CAMPAIGN  INCIDENT 41 

THERE  is  NO  GOOD 44 

FLANKING  THE  ENEMY 45 

PRAYER 48 

FAME  TO  GENIUS 49 

ANDERSONVILLE - 50 

CREEDS 52 

MY  MOTHER 53 

JULY  STH,  1864... -.- 54 

THE  VOICELESS  PAST __ __  55 

MONTMORENCI _. 56 

BEWARE 58 

JULY  2iST,  1864 ' 59 

BORN  TO  MISFORTUNE.. 63 

MONTMORENCI 64 

JADED 65 

H  ALCYONE 66 

PASSION .-  67 

INO 68 

TEMPTATION --  69 

TOM  PAINE --  70 

A  KANSAS  PICTURE 71 

OPPORTUNITY 72 

GLENDARE - 73 

"THE  LAST  MAN" 74 

THE  DREAMS  OF  THE  STARVING 75 


10  CONTENTS. 

ON   THE    WING. 

Mm 
MEXICO  IN  PROSPECT.. 79 

FRANCE 81 

CLEARING  THE  COAST  OF  TEXAS -  83 

IN  CUBAN  WATERS 87 

ON  THE  WESTERN  OCEAN 89 

ST.  GEORGE'S  CHANNEL  ON  A  CLEAR  DAY 91 

BYRON'S  TOMB 93 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  WINDS 95 

NAPOLEON  IN  OBSCURITY 97 

AT  THE  ALTAR 100 

POEMS  OF  CAMP  AND  FIELD. 

OFF  TO  THE  WARS. 105 

A  CASUAL  REFLECTION 106 

IN  LINE  OF  BATTLE 107 

CORINTH 109 

HO  !  FOR  VlCKSBURG IIO 

ONCE  MORE  TO  THE  CAMPS 112 

FORTITUDE 113 

WAR 114 

YOUTHFUL  POEMS. 

ON  THE  KANSAS  PLAINS. 119 

THE  LOST  GENIUS - 123 

ON  A  FRIEND'S  MARRIAGE 128 

LINES 130 

ALL  is  VANITY 132 

AT  NIAGARA 133 

FATE 134 

UNDINE 135 

PROSE. 

STORMY  TIMES  ON  THE  VERDIGREE 141 

BREVITIES 154 


POETRY. 


THE  BARBARIAN. 


"  Money,  money,  money  makes  the  man."—  PINDAR. 


I. 

T  T  7 HERE  e'er  he  turned  he  found  deceit 

V*       Concealed  in  smiles  to^soon  betray, 
And  Shame  he  found  in  Honor's  seat, 
And  Vice  in  Virtue's  chaste  array. 
He  found  Religion  but  a  veil 
To  screen  the  vile  from  honest  scorn, — 
A  giant  Fraud,  from  Terror  born, 
To  plunder  on  colossal  scale, 
And  sway  the  herd  like  serfs  forlorn. 
He  found  that  Falsehood  reigned  supreme  ; 
That  Justice  was  a  poet's  dream 
That  faded  fast  to  empty  air 

13 


14  THE  BARBARIAN. 

Beneath  Corruption's  gorgon  glare  ; 

And  where  Integrity  should  wait, 

Rank  thieves  he  found  installed  in  state. 

He  could  not  bow  at  Power's  call, 

Or  kneel  where  Manhood  bid  him  stand ; 

He  could  not  cringe,  and  delve,  and  crawl 

For  senseless  gold  from  Favor's  hand, 

And  yet  he  found  that  swollen  Wealth 

Could  win  what  Genius  could  not  gain  ; 

That  bays  were  snatched  by  coward  Stealth, 

Where  manly  Force  would  strive  in  vain  ; 

He  saw  Pretension  seize  the  place 

That  sterling  Merit  scarce  could  hold, 

And  saw  the  world  join  in  a  chase  — 

A  frantic  chase  —  for  only  gold. 

And  gold,  he  saw,  ruled  over  all, 

Bought  men  as  dealers  buy  their  slaves, 

Prepared  the  way  for  Beauty's  fall, 

Or  cheated  prisons  of  their  knaves  ; 

Atoned  for  any  crime  or  blot, 

Made  right  whatever  once  was  wrong, 

Set  Law  and  Decency  at  naught, 

And  made  the  hoary  lecher  strong. 


THE  BARBARIAN.  15 

And  Society,  he  fiercely  found, 
Set  everywhere  its  hated  bound 
To  beat  him  back ;  there  was  no  round 
That  he  might  tread  that  did  not  lead 
To  insult,  slander,  hate,  and  greed. 
That  he  was  base  they  could  not  plead ; 
That  he  had  robbed,  or  that  his  creed 
Conflicted  with  the  Lawrs  command  ; 
That  he  had  raised  a  lustful  hand 
At  Innocence  in  hour  of  need, 
Or  that  Weakness  had  within  his  snare 
Been  stricken  down  to  perish  there, 
And  he  had  mocked  to  see  it  bleed  — 
That  he  had  wrought  some  murder  grim. 
They  could  not  say  these  things  of  him. 
His  crime  was  worse  a  thousand  fold  — 
He  had  no  hoarded  heaps  of  gold. 
His  vengeful  soul  in  rage  rebelled, 
And  bitter  as  a  cynic  grey, 
He  cursed  a  world  that  only  held 
Such  hypocrites  and  beasts  of  prey. 


16  THE  BARBARIAN. 

II. 

The  deep  woods  heard  his  axe's  stroke, 
His  own  strong  arms  laid  low  the  oak, 
He  shaped  his  logs,  he  cleared  the  spot, 
He  reared  alone  his  ample  cot, 
He  broke  the  sod,  with  easy  speed 
He  scattered  wide  the  yellow  seed, 
He  covered  well  —  his  task  was  done, 
He  left  the  rest  to  rain  and  sun, 
For  farther  toil  there  was  no  need. 

He  was  no  serf  his  strength  to  waste 
From  morning  red  to  evening  chaste, 
Subservient  to  Wealth's  decree. 
There  was  no  king  more  truly  free, 
More  safe  from  tyranny  than  he. 
Where  was  the  wretch  dare  bid  him  rise 
Ere  dawn  had  tinged  the  eastern  skies, 
To  drudge  in  pain  that  knaves  might  feast, 
Might  have  their  pageantry  increased, 
Might  bask  in  dissipation's  blaze 
Through  noisy  nights  and  idle  days, 


THE  BARBARIAN.  17 

And  flaunt  their  robes  from  hall  to  den 
Before  the  eyes  of  better  men  ? 
Where  were  the  lips  that  dared  command, 
Or  dared,  with  insolence  of  speech, 
Oppression's  sophistry  to  preach 
Within  the  aisles  so  broad  and  grand 
That  girt  his  home  with  boundless  reach, 
Green  canopied  by  God's  own  hand? 
Ah  !  none  were  there  —  the  land,  the  air, 
The  woods,  the  game,  were  Heaven's  care  ; 
The  teeming  fruits,  the  waters  clear, 
That  shone  and  glistened  far  and  near, 
Were  free  for  him  to  take  or  spare. 
The  blue  smoke  curled  above  his  roof, 
His  lounging  dogs  kept  vigils  true, 
The  savage  beasts  prowled  far  aloof, 
Or  frightened  fled  his  wild  haloo. 
The  flowers  bloomed  for  him  to  view, 
The  grasses  sprung  to  bear  his  tread, 
And  catch  the  freshness  of  the  dew  ; 
The  birds  that  chorused  sweet  o'erhead 
His  very  step  and  presence  knew. 
He  was  a  king,  his  realm  was  fair, 
2 


18  THE  BARBARIAN. 

He  feared  no  plots  of  baffled  foes, 
His  crown  contained  no  thorn  of  care, 
His  throne  was  pleasure  and  repose. 


PAULINE. 


"The  world  treats  me  like  a  Pariah,"  said  Beethoven  gloomily. 


'X/'OU  seem  so  sad  when  half  alone. 

When  you  do  not  deem  me  nigh, 
You  bow  your  weary  head  and  sigh, 
As  though  some  shadow  you  deny 
Across  your  path  were  thrown. 
You  have  some  grief  you  will  not  own. 
Your  red  lips  speak  in  joyous  tone, 
Yet  in  your  very  smile  I  see 
Some  evil  things  that  should  not  be  — 
Some  subtle  signs  you  seek  to  hide  — 
The  haughtiness  of  wounded  pride, 
And  bitterness  with  pain  allied. 
Sometimes  the  slightest  things  you  say, 
Seem  darkened  by  some  mystic  doom. 


20  PA  UL1NK. 

Sometimes  your  lightest  words  convey 
A  nameless  sense  of  weighty  gloom 
That  jesting  will  not  drive  away  ; 
And  ever  when  your  wit 's  in  play, 
You  well  nigh  mar  your  morning  bloom. 
Such  keen,  sarcastic  things  you  say. 

You  need  not  speak  —  you  cannot  screen 

What  duller  eyes  than  mine  have  seen ; 

Too  palpable  to  any  gaze 

The  deadly  bane  of  your  young  days. 

God  gave  to  you  a  matchless  frame, 

Symmetric  as  the  poets  claim 

Fair  Venus  had  when  earth  was  new ; 

He  gave  to  you  such  glorious  eyes, 

I  first  beheld  them  with  surprise, 

And  wondered  if  some  wayward  queen 

Arrayed  in  this  your  vesture  mean, 

Did  not  wander  in  disguise. 

A  thousand  charms  he  gave  to  you 

As  lavish  as  the  falling  dew, 

With  passions  strong,  and  ruddy  health, 

And  pride  that  scarcely  bends  by  stealth, 


PA  ULINE.  21 

And  grandly  beautified  the  whole 
By  moulding  faultlessly  thy  soul, 
Yet  did  not  crown  his  gifts  with  wealth. 

Think  you  he  blessed  you  by  such  grace  ? 
In  all  his  givings  can  you  trace 
The  semblance  of  a  motive  kind  ? 
Cast  away  your  teachings  blind, 
And  question  with  undaunted  mind. 
Fair  as  the  stars  of  Fashion's  sphere, 
Lo  !  you  sit  unhonored  here. 
Who  comes  to  pay  you  homage  chaste, 
Pleading  for  smiles  with  eager  haste, 
Hour  by  hour  the  tale  to  repeat 
Of  life-long  love's  delusions  sweet  — 
Strewing  his  wealth  around  your  feet, 
Counting  as  naught  its  royal  waste 
So  you  bid  him  no  more  entreat, 
Smile  assent  to  his  ardent  claim, 
Yield  your  beauties  to  be  embraced, 
And  your  hand  for  his  gems  aflame, 
And  haughtily  wear  his  name  ? 


22  PA  ULINE. 

None  come  ;  but  when  you  idly  dream 

Beside  your  lattice,  too  wrapt  to  seem 

Observant  of  the  throngs  you  view, 

Vile  lechers  fix  their  gaze  on  you, 

As  they  lounge  past,  fresh  from  their  lairs, 

And  ponder  on  what  common  snares 

May  best  suffice  to  work  your  ill. 

They  leer  upon  you,  foul  with  lust, 

Until  their  red  eyes  feast  their  fill, 

And  gorge  you  with  disgust. 

You  cannot  move  for  lurking  foes ; 

The  dreary  shadow  of  repose 

That  Fate  yet  leaves  you  they  would  slay. 

They  weave  their  toils  around  your  way 

As  hunters  cast  their  nets  for  prey. 

Their  smiles  are  false,  their  words  are  lies, 

The  honeyed  things  they  sometimes  say 

Are  Hell's  suggestions  in  disguise  ; 

There  are  no  fiends  more  base  than  they  — 

Your  abject  ruin  is  their  prize. 

Such  is  the  fruit  your  beauty  bears ; 

It  girds  you  round  about  with  snares. 


PA  ULINE.  23 

Not  so  does  Fortune  deal  with  all. 
Others  to  sumptuous  homes  are  born ; 
On  pleasant  paths  their  footsteps  fall 
From  the  first  flush  of  childhood's  morn 
Till  the  autumn  of  their  stormless  days 
Fades  out  like  sunset's  dying  blaze. 
Life  to  them  is  all  in  all. 
Affection  girds  them  like  a  wall, 
And  ready  at  their  languid  call 
Are  all  the  joys  that  mortals  win 
From  love,  and  luxury,  and  sin. 
They  have  a  surfeit  of  the  bliss 
For  which  you  starve  —  what  they  reject, 
If  yours,  e'en  in  a  den  like  this, 
Would  make  your  glowing  eyes  reflect 
So  deep  a  joy  from  out  your  soul 
That  I  might  read  them  like  a  scroll, 
And  tell  you,  ere  you  spake  a  word, 
That  not  in  vain  had  been  deferred 
Your  thousand  hopes  —  that  not  in  vain 
Had  Vice's  baubles  been  forsworn, 
Or  poverty  and  secret  pain 
With  iron  fortitude  been  borne. 


24  PA  ULINE. 

Yet  such,  alas !  is  not  to  be. 
Vex  not  your  soul  with  airy  schemes  — 
In  vain  you  build  your  gorgeous  dreams  — 
You  cannot  alter  Fate's  decree. 

A  man  can  rise,  if  born  obscure  — 

Can  summon  courage  to  endure 

The  world's  rebuffs,  and  wrench  the  heel 

Of  Poverty  from  off  his  neck  — 

Can  rear  his  fortunes  from  the  wreck 

Of  others'  hopes,  and  fiercely  feel 

A  thrill  of  vengeance  in  their  woe, 

And  in  the  stern  strife  a  lofty  glow 

Of  exultation  and  of  pride 

That  hurls  Adversity  aside, 

And  conquers,  step  by  step,  a  way 

Through  adverse  Fortune's  thick  array 

Of  bitter  woes,  to  all  he  craves 

That  Gold  confers  or  Honor  yields. 

His  very  anguish  swiftly  paves 

The  rugged  way  to  grandest  fields, 

Lending  a  vigor  to  his  blows 

That  only  desperation  knows. 


PA  ULINE.  25 

All  before  him  are  his  foes. 

With  haughty  rage  he  scorns  repose, 

And  strikes  as  though  his  fierce  strokes  fell, 

Not  alone  to  reach  his  goal, 

But  for  the  very  jewel  of  his  soul  — 

For  life  itself  —  for  if  he  fail, 

Not  heartless  crowds  will  hear  his  wail ; 

The  grave  will  close  his  gloomy  tale, 

And  desert  winds  will  sing  his  knell  — 

He  will  perish  or  prevail. 

Thus  nerved,  he  wrests  away  his  prize. 

But  woman  born  to  station  low, 

Though  fair  as  Juno,  and  as  wise 

As  Pallas  chaste,  can  never  rise. 

Her  dreary  option  lies 

Between  the  hovel  and  the  hell. 

You  were  not  moulded  to  delight 
Some  craven  beast  of  loud  command 
And  sudden  rage,  whose  brutal  hand 
Would  be  more  often  raised  to  smite 
Than  stretched  in  toil  for  thine  and  thee  ; 
Whose  reeking  home  would  only  be 


26  PA  ULINE. 

A  prison  loathed,  where  toil  and  tears 
Would  wear  away  the  dragging  years, 
And  sickness,  misery  and  pain, 
And  pinching  want  alone  would  reign. 
You  would  not  wish  with  pangs  to  bear 
Fair  children  from  his  loathed  embrace, 
To  see  them  pine  and  wither  there, 
Or  thrive  in  discord  and  disgrace, 
Foredoomed  in  after  years  to  rot 
In  brothel  beds  and  prison  cells. 
Abhor  indeed  your  present  lot, 
But  even  Hell  has  deeper  hells. 
Far  better  should  you  perish  now, 
Fall  ere  another  sun  shall  rise, 
With  beauty  throned  upon  your  brow, 
And  Heaven's  light  within  your  eyes, 
And  warm  within  your  purple  veins 
The  blood  of  youth,  and  on  your  cheek 
The  florid  freshness  of  the  rose, 
Than  wear  accursed  the  galling  chains 
That  love  and  poverty  impose. 
Say  rather  lust  —  ah  !  do  not  speak 
To  me  of  love  —  there  is  no  kind 


PA  ULINE.  27 

That  ghastly  selfishness  can  find 
No  portal  wide  to  enter  in  ; 
There  is  no  kind  unstained  by  sin, 
Unmantled  by  a  garb  of  shame, 
Or  worthy  of  the  price  or  name. 

Yet  deem  not  Vice,  so  fair  to  view, 

The  maze  of  joy  it  seems  to  you. 

Would  you  know  the  harlot's  round  ? 

She  treads  on  burning  ground. 

Gaunt  Horror  beards  her  face  to  face, 

Before  her  yawns  a  gulf  of  wrath, 

Behind,  a  desolated  path 

Her  feet  can  never  more  retrace. 

Not  one  pure  joy  remains  her  own. 

Diseased,  degraded,  and  defiled, 

She  moves  through  all  the  world  alone, 

Abhorred,  detested,  and  reviled. 

Her  game  is  death  —  she  slays  for  bread. 

The  beauty  God  first  formed  her  in 

Tempts  madly  to  her  cursed  bed, 

Bewildered  with  the  sweets  of  sin, 

The  loved,  the  fair,  the  strong,  the  bold  — 


28  P-l  ULINE. 

She  clasps  them  in  her  deadly  fold, 

And  while  her  serpent  lips  reply 

To  kisses  hot,  and  while  she  twines 

Her  velvet  arms,  like  poisoned  vines, 

Around  their  frames,  drowned  in  delights, 

They  feel  not  when  her  venom  smites. 

With  secret  smile  she  hears  them  sigh, 

She  sends  them  forth — anon  to  die. 

This  is  her  trade  —  it  is  to  kill ; 

She  cannot  change  it  if  she  will. 

She  was  not  spared,  why  should  she  spare  ? 

Who  taught  to  her  Pollution's  snare  ? 

Let  none  declare 

The  canting  tale  of  Pity's  lie. 

Let  censure  sleep. 

Does  God  restrain  the  wrathful  gales 

Because  a  shattered  vessel  sails 

Upon  the  deep  ? 

Does  he  withhold  the  wasteful  rain, 

At  day's  high  noon, 

Because  the  fields  with  leveled  grain 

Are  thickly  strewn? 

Turns  he  away  the  lava  tide, 


PA  ULINE.  29 

That  hisses  down  the  mountain  side, 
Because  a  city  blocks  its  course  ? 
When  he  unchains  the  whirlwind's  force, 
Cares  he  what  ills  to  us  betide  ? 
When  such  as  he  deign  not  to  spare, 
Why  should  a  ruined  wretch  forbear  ? 

You  start  —  I  thought  you  scarce  could  know 

The  ample  fullness  of  your  woe. 

These  things,  to  you,  are  deeply  strange, 

Their  drift  you  do  not  comprehend  ; 

I  see  your  cheek's  soft  color  change, 

And  its  pink  and  crimson  blend 

With  ashy  white  ;  it  seems  to  burn, 

E'en  when  most  pale,  with  a  vague  heat 

As  though  your  pulse  with  fever  beat. 

Much  yet,  fair  girl,  have  you  to  learn. 

Of  you  I  dreamed  —  half  drunk  you  reeled 
At  night  along  the  crowded  pave  ; 
The  glare  of  myriad  lights  revealed 
Your  haggard  lineaments,  and  gave 
Their  ghastly  outlines  such  a  mien 


30  PA  ULINE. 

Of  hideous  woe,  I  thought  the  grave 

Might  well  have  snatched  you  from  the  scene 

As  one  rebelling  from  Death's  sleep. 

Your  swollen  eyes  refused  to  weep, 

And  yet  your  bitter  soul  o'erflowed 

With  galling  griefs ;  doomed  to  reap 

The  baleful  harvest  you  had  sowed, 

You  staggered  on.     Men  passed  you  by 

With  mocking  jests  or  laughter  rude  ; 

The  pure  shunned  you  ;  every  eye, 

With  touch  of  pity  unsubdued, 

Stared  heartless  insolence  and  scorn. 

Crushed,  abashed,  maddened,  spurned,  forlorn, 

The  loathsome  wreck  of  former  days, 

You  stole  from  out  the  street's  red  blaze 

And  crouched  where  deepest  night  had  fled, 

Shamed  e'en  when  shame  itself  was  dead. 

Ah,  sweet  Pauline,  you  cannot  guess 
The  horrors  of  a  woman's  fall. 
There  is  no  language  can  express 
The  anguish  and  wild  wretchedness 
That  ceaselessly  her  soul  appall. 


PA  ULINE.  31 

Her  revel  bowl  is  brimmed  with  gall ; 
It  cannot  quench  her  deep  despair. 
The  roses  twined  amid  her  hair 
The  odors  of  the  grave  exhale  ; 
The  hollow  mirth  she  seems  to  share 
But  mocks  her  spirit's  inward  wail, 
And  spectres  stalk  amidst  the  air 
While  loud  her  merriments  prevail. 

What  wild,  lone  path  to  you  remains, 

Where  neither  Penury  enchains 

With  fetters  cold,  nor  Shame's  hot  bre1  th 

Scathes  the  broad  road  that  winds  to  (  eath  ? 

Rise  on  your  nature,  fierce  to  rend, 

Bid  every  tender  instinct  bend 

To  god-like  Reason's  iron  sway ; 

Bid  every  warm  impulse  be  bred 

To  cold  distrust  or  hate  instead. 

Brand  Friendship  but  a  lying  snare  ; 

Crush  Love  and  Pity  ere  they  bear 

Their  sweet  but  unavailing  fruit. 

For  foes  and  treachery  prepare. 

In  Man  behold  a  lustful  brute 


32  PAULINE. 

Whose  fading  spark  of  fire  divine 
Through  clogging  passion  scarce  can  shine  ; 
Know  earth  a  ruthless  battle-ground 
Where  Might  and  Wrong  are  ever  found 
Allied  against  the  crushed  and  weak ; 
Henceforward  let  your  fair  lips  speak 
But  cold,  calm  words,  nor  deign  to  seek 
That  sympathy  your  sex  e'er  craves, 
Which  won,  transforms  them  all  to  slaves ; 
Dream  not  of  peace,  hope  not  to  gain 
A  single  joy  for  all  your  pain  ; 
Undaunted  by  the  baser  crowd, 
Untainted  by  Corruption's  gold, 
Unloving  and  unloved,  stern,  proud, 
Chaste,  indomitable  and  bold, 
Selfish,  untempted  and  unsold, 
Impervious  pursue  your  way. 


LOST  ON  THE  BOEDER. 

/ 

i. 

down  the  woods  the  black  night  fell, 
The  restless  lightnings  blazed  and  flashed, 
And  strewed  the  skies  with  hues  of  Hell, 
Or  through  the  moaning  forest  crashed, 
Sc'athing  their  way  through  tangled  shades, 
Cleaving  the  oaks  like  lindens  frail, 
Rebounding  from  their  burning  raids 
And  dying  on  the  roaring  gale. 
The  angry  thunders  surged  and  rolled 
Like  volleys  from  contending  gods, 
The  rains  swept  down  in  torrents  cold 
And  bowed  the  trees  like  trembling  rods. 
The  scared  deer  hid  in  dripping  dells, 
The  panther  ceased  his  hungry  yells 
And  slunk  within  his  jungled  lair ; 
The  wolves  fled  frantic  in  the  glare 
3A 


34  LOST  ON   THE  BORDER. 

That  smote  the  earth  and  deluged  air, 
And  all  fierce  things  ignored  their  prey 
Since  chaos  seemed  resuming  sway. 


IT. 


Her  throat  was  spanned  with  chains  of  gold. 

Rich  jewels  flashed  in  brilliance  cold 

Upon  her  hands  of  faultless  shape  ; 

Her  limbs  were  of  exquisite  mould, 

Nor  could  their  symmetry  escape 

His  searching  and  excited  gaze, 

For,  as  she  lolled  within  the  blaze, 

In  free  and  tempting  attitude, 

Her  garments  drenched  clung  close  around 

A  figure  where  Perfection  found 

Itself  in  mortal  flesh  renewed. 

Disheveled  o'er  her  snowy  breast, 

Or  round  her  shoulders'  perfect  lines, 

Like  thunder  clouds  along  the  west 

When  low  the  sun  in  setting  shines, 

Her  dense  black  locks  in  masses  streamed, 


LOST  ON   THE  BORDER.  35 

Wet  with  the  strong  tornado's  breath. 

Thick  hedging  in  a  face  that  beamed 

With  light  and  love,  as  saints  have  dreamed 

The  pure  shall  have  when  freed  by  death  — 

A  sweet,  refined,  expressive  face, 

And  yet  whereon  the  eye  could  trace 

Some  signs  of  passion,  slumb'ring  still 

In  dormant  strength,  yet  quick  to  rise 

If  tempted  by  a  firm  set  will 

Veiled  in  persuasion's  silken  guise. 

Short  was  her  tale — far  in  the  East, 

Beyond  the  woods  and  prairies  free, 

Where  rock-reared  bluffs  in  grandeur  flank 

The  southward  rolling  inland  sea  — 

Where  fleets  float  on  the  billows  blue, 

And  winds  are  fair  and  isles  are  few, 

And  sunbeams  fall  on  clouds  of  steam, 

Or  flash  and  glance  from  dripping  oars ; 

Where  Commerce  crowns  the  boundless  stream, 

And  cities  line  the  rival  shores, 

And  vineyards  spread  with  vigor  rank 

O'er  lands  that  groan  with  wealth  increased, 

And  Labor's  bustle,  roar,  and  clank 


36  LOST  ON   THE  BORDER. 

Proclaim  that  all,  from  great  to  least, 
Must  strongly  toil  with  brain  or  hand, 
Obedient  to  God's  command, 
And  toiling  thus  may  win  and  feast  — 
('T  is  thus  that  presbyter  and  priest 
Would  have  their  vassals  understand 
Why  some  are  blessed  and  others  banned.) 
There  was  her  home  ;  in  halls  of  pride, 
That  looked  afar  o'er  hill  and  tide, 
Without  a  wish  ungratified, 
The  queen  of  Fortune's  petted  throng 
She  dwelt,  her  life  a  joyous  maze 
Of  bright  and  unembittered  days, 
All  intertwined  with  smiles  and  song. 
At  length  the  woods  and  breezy  plain, 
In  contrast  with  her  realm  of  ease, 
Seemed  like  the  green  and  glad  domain 
Some  heart-sick  royal  captive  sees, 
Sad  gazing  through  his  prison  screens 
While  'vironed  round  with  choicest  scenes. 
Her  wayward  fancy  prone  to  please, 
With  gallant  guard  and  ample  train 
She  crossed  the  prairies  wide  as  seas. 


LOST  ON   THE  BORDER,  37 

III. 

Apart  the  stalwart  hermit  stood 
With  folded  arms  in  evil  mood. 

The  maid  reclined,  absorbed  in  thought, 
Unconscious  that  her  beauty  wrought 
Within  his  brain  a  maddened  spell, 
And  that  his  gaze  upon  her  fell 
As  merciless  as  fabled  Hell, 
Feeding  the  source  from  whence  it  came, 
Feasting,  like  the  treacherous  flame 
Upon  the  pyre  that  gives  it  life, 
Heartless,  insensate,  lustful,  rife 
With  the  mad  thoughts  that  tameless  rise 
From  the  breast  of  youth,  veiled  in  sighs 
And  panoplied  in  hues  of  love. 
As  the  serpent  glares  on  the  dove 
That  cannot  fly  its  poisoned  fangs, 
And  yet  forbears  to  strike,  and  hangs 
Above  its  prey,  content  to  know 
It  cannot  'scape  the  deadly  blow, 
So  stood  he  there,  his  passions  blind, 
Holding  his  soul  in  abject  thrall. 
3s 


38  LOST  ON    THE  BORDER. 

Mind  oft  can  converse  hold  with  mind 
Though  not  a  word  from  lips  may  fall ; 
To  speak,  not  language  may  require, 
But  eyes  can  flash  magnetic  fire  — 
Can  blaze  with  purpose  and  desire, 
Transmitting  shafts  of  viewless  might 
That  shock  the  dormant  brain  they  smite, 
And  rouse  it  up,  as  hosts  at  night 
Spring  from  the  field  of  doubtful  fight, 
When  loud  alarms  the  bugles  call, 
And  bolts  of  vengeance  hissing  fall. 

She  started  like  the  hunted  deer 

When  swift  the  baying  hounds  advance ; 

She  trembled  with  a  nameless  fear, 

And  turning  met  his  savage  glance  ; 

She  saw  his  lineaments  express 

The  vilest  of  vile  selfishness, 

Incarnate  lust,  and  brutal  greed 

To  which  't  were  vain  to  kneel  and  plead, 

And,  nerved  by  some  strange  strength  she  rose, 

As  dying  heroes  face  their  foes, 

And  stood  erect —  a  perfect  queen  — 


LOST   ON   THE  BORDER.  39 

Unbounded  was  her  passion's  reach, 

And  with  Zenobia's  tragic  mien 

She  coined  her  proud  contempt  in  speech. 

He  heard  her  not  —  he  only  saw 

A  grandeur  in  her  stormy  eyes 

That  touched  his  guilty  soul  with  awe 

Too  deep  for  lewdness  to  despise  — 

A  purity  that  seemed  sublime, 

More  eloquent  to  banish  crime 

Than  great  Jehovah's  sternest  law, 

Or  Man's  most  pitiless  decree. 

O,  more  magnificent  her  rage 

Than  richest  canvas  could  reflect ! 

So  warm  with  youth,  as  wise  as  age, 

And  bitter  as  o'er  weening  pride 

With  sense  of  deepest  wrong  allied, 

Or  burning  hatred  could  direct. 

Unused  to  polished  beauty's  wiles 

Such  anger  moved  him  more  than  smiles  — 

Such  chaste  and  fearless  dignity 

Possessed  more  power  to  stay  his  lust 

Than  had  she  bended  to  the  dust. 


40  LOST  ON   THE  BORDER. 

From  such  as  she  no  servile  prayer 

Was  needed  to  escape  his  snare ; 

Her  scathing  words  were  swifter  far 

To  reach  his  heart  than  strong  appeal ; 

They  played  like  brightly  burnished  steel 

Blazing  rancor  could  not  mar 

Their  fine  effect,  nor  force  him  feel 

One  vengeful  impulse  in  return. 

By  nature  hot,  by  training  stern, 

Implacable,  quick  to  resent, 

Too  proud  to  pity  or  repent, 

The  very  courage  of  her  will, 

The  very  fervor  of  her  ire, 

Dazzled  and  disarmed  him  still, 

And  bid  him  honor  and  admire. 


A   CAMPAIGN  INCIDENT. 

\  T  7ITHIN  the  bloody  trench  he  lay, 

*  *      The  fairest  one  of  slaughter's  prey , 
His  eyes  were  fixed  with  stony  stare, 
And  yet  his  face  spoke  not  of  pain, 
But  high  resolve  was  mirrored  there, 
As  though  the  doubtful  field  to  gain 
Were  worth  the  piles  of  reeking  slain 
That  smoked  beneath  the  torrid  air. 
To  see  if  life  could  still  remain, 
A  sergeant,  grim  with  powder  stain, 
A  rude,  rough  fellow,  quick  to  dare, 
Yet  kind  of  heart  as  women  are, 
In  tenderness  knelt  by  his  side, 
And  lifted  back  his  dabbled  hair, 
And  tore  his  bloody  dress  aside, 
When  lo  !  a  maiden's  breast  was  there. 

4 


42  A    CAMPAIGN  INCIDENT. 

A  pitying  oath  the  sergeant  swore, 

Then  slowly  rose  in  blank  amaze ; 

Strange  wiercl  things  we  had  seen  before. 

'Mid  shifting  scenes  of  stormy  days. 

We  had  seen  hostile  cities  blaze  ; 

We  had  seen  the  elements  blend 

Their  wrath  with  Man's,  and  Heaven  send 

Its  lightnings  down  to  quiet  ours ; 

We  had  seen  Nature's  dreadest  powers 

In  every  form  and  every  phase  ; 

By  the  soft  light  of  summer  moons, 

Louisiana's  still  lagoons 

Had  borne  us  far  to  realms  where  well 

You  might  have  deemed  some  wizard's  spell 

Had  bid  the  low,  green  shores  expand 

To  vistas  of  some  fairy  land  ; 

On  Tennessee's  rich  hills  of  fruit, 

Along  the  Tallahatchie's  tide, 

Where  amber  Yazoo's  floods  are  mute, 

Or  Gaudalope  and  Brazos  glide, 

Where  Vicksburg  towered  in  her  pride, 

Disputing  for  an  empire's  sway, 

Much  had  we  seen  no  future  day 


A    CAMPAIGN  INCIDENT.  43 

Will  far  eclipse  ;  much  to  appall, 

To  startle,  rapture,  or  dismay, — 

But  this  strange  sight  surpassed  them  all. 

The  drums  beat,  and  there  was  no  time 
For  lamentations  o'er  the  dead  — 
The  troops  were  gathering  to  climb 
A  wooded  height,  whereon  't  was  said 
The  foe  had  rallied  for  a  stand ; 
And  so,  upon  that  gory  crest, 
We  made  a  grave  where  she  might  rest, 
And  laid  her  down  with  tender  hand. 
Her  woes  unknown,  unknown  her  name, 
She  sleeps  upon  her  field  of  fame  ; 
No  storied  page  her  deeds  shall  tell, 
Yet  calm  she  sleeps,  and  all  is  well. 


THERE  IS  NO   GOOD. 

T^ARTH  seems  a  Hell. 
— '    Life  came  unasked, 
And  so  comes  woe. 
It  thickens  on  us. 
It  is  our  heritage. 
Goaded  by  desires 
Implanted  in  us, 
We  have  no  means 
To  stay  them. 

We  bend  and  strive  and  strain, 
And  all  is  naught. 
I  denounce  existing  things. 
There  is  no  guiding  hand. 
A  gale  is  forth, 
Ominous  to  Man, 
Scattering  wide  disaster. 
A  whirl  of  ruin 
Roars  around  us, 
And  there  is  no  haven. 

44 


FLANKINa   THE  ENEMY. 

\  T  7  HERE  Kenesaw  its  lofty  crest 

*  *       Reared  threat'ning  'neath  a  tropic  sky, 
Long  had  our  legions  hotly  pressed 
To  fiercely  strive  and  proudly  die. 
From  peak  to  peak  and  height  to  height 
The  gleam  of  bayonets  met  the  sight ; 
On  barren  ridge  and  hills  of  stone 
The  brazen-throated  cannons  shone, 
And  tents  were  white  in  vales  between 
Half  hid  by  summer's  robes  of  green, 
And  silent  squares  of  daring  men 
Were  gathered  in  each  leafy  glen, 
And  parapets  and  walls  of  clay 
Far  o'er  the  mountains  stretched  their  way ; 
And  fortress  dark,  on  every  side, 
To  fortress  dark  in  rage  replied ; 
And  musketry  in  volleys  broke 

45 


4Q  FLANKING    THE   ENEMY. 

From  leaguered  lines,  through  woods  of  oak, 
And  where  the  peaks  were  lost  in  blue, 
Rebellion's  haughty  standards  flew. 

The  sun  went  down  in  blazing  ire, 

His  glory  mingled  with  our  fire  ; 

His  gorgeous  streams  of  golden  light 

Poured  flood-like  through  the  roaring  fight, 

And  all  the  stars  our  banners  bore 

Gleamed  like  Montana's  yellow  ore. 

No  moon  was  forth  when  night  was  come, 

No  longer  rolled  the  warning  drum  ; 

No  rifle  cracked  from  vale  or  hill, 

The  rumbling  guns  grew  strangely  still, 

And  weary  with  the  day  gone  by, 

Each  soldier  placed  his  weapons  nigh, 

And  laid  him  down  to  dream  or  die. 

Late  was  the  hour  swift  riders  bore 
Strange  tidings  through  those  forests  hoar. 
With  cautionings  of  watchful  foes, 
Our  chieftains  roused  us  from  repose. 
No  trump  was  blown,  no  signal  made, 


FLANKING   THE  ENEMY.  47 

But  like  a  host  become  afraid, 

For  leagues  and  leagues  the  still  lines  poured 

Back  from  their  works,  as  surges  creep 

Back  to  the  fountains  of  the  deep 

When  baffled  by  the  firm  sea-board  ; 

And  then,  as  rent,  conflicting  tides, 

Sore  fretted  by  the  wailing  blast, 

Resolve  into  a  current  vast 

That  cannot  scale  the  cliff's  tall  sides, 

Yet  round  its  base  resistless  glides, 

So  formed  we  there  and  westward  swept 

While  still  the  foe  unthinking  slept. 

Long  was  the  night,  and  silence  dread  — 
So  strangely  deep  it  seemed  the  dead 
Must  rouse  beneath  our  martial  tread  — 
Far  as  the  horrid  darkness  spread, 
Intensely  reigned ;  some  muttered  word 
Anon  amid  the  gloom  was  heard, 
Some  charger's  neigh,  some  clank  of  steel, 
The  noise  of  some  half  muffled  wheel, 
Some  wild  bird's  scream,  as  if  in  fright  — 
And  these  alone  disturbed  the  night. 


48  PRA  YER. 

With  balmy  winds  and  azure  skies, 

Morn  came  in  Triumph's  splendid  guise ; 

Upon  the  foe's  far  flank  we  bore 

In  war's  proud  pomp,  with  music's  roar, 

And  columns  massed,  and  seas  of  steel, 

And  musketry's  terrific  peal, 

And  crash  of  shell,  and  cannon  glare. 

And  thund'ring  cheers  that  rolled  away 

As  though  the  nations,  thronging  there, 

In  fury  marshalled  for  affray. 

The  startled  foe,  amazed,  undone, 
Recoiled  before  our  storm  of  might ; 
And  ere  the  stars  of  early  night, 
Our  banners  streamed  from  hill  and  height, 
And  Kenesaw  was  won. 


PRAYER. 

ALL  is  written 
That  will  transpire. 
A  sea  of  tears 
Sets  not  aside 
One  lone  event. 


FAME  TO  G-ENIUS. 

A  RISE,  with  pride  of  many  kings, 
•*•*•    And  face  the  world's  presumptuous  gaze. 
Wrest  away  thy  regal  bays, 
Wear  them  in  the  noontide  blaze 
As  from  the  Heavens  handed  down  — 
.  Earth  contains  no  grander  crown ; 
The  brightest  of  terrestrial  things 

Must  pale  before  their  gorgeous  rays 
As  stars  before  the  sun  go  down. 
4  49 


ANDERS  ONVILLE* 

r  I  ^HEY  were  men  no  more  ! 

Brutalized  by  Hunger's  gnawing  fangs, 
They  swarmed  upon  the  foul  earth  like  vermin, 
Or  sunk  upon  their  slimy  beds  and  died, 
And  rotted  where  they  fell  —  corruption  bred 
A  pestilence,  and  to  escape  it, 
Some  burrowed  in  the  earth  like  beasts, 
And  by  the  treacherous  sands  were  buried. 
Diseases  of  all  strangest  forms  prevailed, 
Nor  art  nor  surgery  was  there  to  bar 
Their  gorgon  growth  ;  all  subtle  taints  that  lurk 
Within  the  richest  and  the  purest  blood, 
Were  fanned  to  intense  and  vengeful  being, 
And  devoured  the  lean  and  livid  flesh. 


*  I  was  a  prisoner  of  war  at  Audersonville,  Camp  Lawton,  Savannah, 
and  Blackshire,  in  Georgia  ;  Florence,  in  South  Carolina  :  and  Wilming 
ton  and  Goldsboro,  in  North  Carolina. 

60 


ANDERSONVILLE.  51 

The  seeds  of  awful  scrofulas  were  nursed 

To  virulent  life  ;  cancers,  and  all  plagues 

That  rankly  fester  in  decaying  flesh, 

Raged  unchecked ;  whole  limbs  became  discolored, 

And  swollen  to  the  point  of  bursting  ; 

Teeth  dropped  out,  and  eyes  from  their  sockets  ran; 

Through  cheeks  and  throats  great  ulcers  eat  their 

way, 

And  as  the  stricken  ones  unheeded  inoaned, 
Panting  beneath  a  most  merciless  sun, 
The  vile    worms   crawled  up  from  the   teeming 

ground, 
And  fed  on  them,  not  waiting  for  death. 

Clear  and  shrill  within  the  echoing  wood 

Pealed  the  hunter's  horn,  and  the  blood-hound's 

bay 

Reached  the  far  fugitive's  ear,  ominous 
And  terrible,  blanching  his  haggard  cheek, 
Wreathing  with  deadly  pallor  his  sad  lips, 
Freezing  the  coursing  blood  within  his  veins. 
Fiercely  upon  his  trail  the  hellish  dogs 
Unerring  sped,  shrieking  for  their  human  prey. 


52  CREEDS. 

Lo !  when  he  fainting  fell,  with  dripping  jaws 
They  tore  God's  image  from  his  parted  bones. 

All  were  malevolent  and  pitiless  — 

Their  hearts  were  changed  to  stone,  and  in  their 

breasts 

Human  feelings  were  quite  extinguished. 
They  gloated  on  each  other's  misery ; 
And  when  the  delirious  spake  of  home, 
They  laughed  horribly,  and  jested  of  the  grave, 
And  with  oaths  and  sarcastic  mockery 
Tortured  and  taunted  the  dying,  as  though 
Death  were  the  mere  incident  of  an  hour. 

Arch-fiends  from  deepest  regions  of  the  damned, 

Exultant  might  have  stood  amid  it  all, 

And  deemed  themselves  in  Hades'  drearest  shades. 


A 


GREEDS. 

LL  human  vagaries  deceive ; 
The  best  of  creeds  is  —  disbelieve. 


MY  MOTHER. 

"  T  GNORE  the  common  goal,"  she  said, 
-*-  "  Leave  fools  to  gather  rubbish  vile, 
Lift  thou  thine  eyes  to  heights  o'er  head, 

And  seek  to  bask  in  Glory's  smile. 
The  sluggard  perishes  in  shame, 

The  Shylock's  pomps  with  him  expire, 
The  hero  leaves  a  deathless  name 
.    For  countless  ages  to  admire. 
Strong  be  thy  will — as  iron  strong, 

To  cleave  a  path  to  grand  renown, 
And,  peerless  in  the  fields  of  song, 

To  millions  shall  thy  name  go  down. 
The  years  but  drift  to  Death's  dark  shore 

Let  proud  ambitions  sway  thy  mind  — 
So  live,  that  when  thy  race  is  o'er, 

Resplendent  trails  shall  glow  behind." 

53 


JULY  FIFTH,  1864. 

A  BOVE  our  heads,  across  the  vale, 
**•    Our  batteries,  with  screaming  hail, 
Dashed  the  opposing  works  away 
As  tempests  toss  the  ocean  spray, 
And  yet  our  chieftain's  ringing  call 
Was  heard  distinct  above  it  all. 

'Mid  sharp  commands  and  hot  replies, 
I  faintly  heard  a  score  of  cries, 
And  then,  in  wild  disorder  still, 
Our  curving  lines  surged  up  the  hill, 
A  gleaming  mass  of  fearless  men. 

The  moments  sped  like  dizzy  dreams. 
Amid  a  tumult  of  alarms, 
The  flash  of  steel,  the  roar  of  arms, 
Explosions,  curses,  groans  and  screams, 

54 


THE    VOICELESS  PAST.  55 

The  rush  of  crowds,  the  fall  of  men 
That  ruthlessly  were  trampled  then, 
The  sight  of  blood,  the  glare  of  fire, 
All  mingled  in  confusion  dire, 
And  scarcely  knowing  which  had  lost, 
In  wrath  the  battlements  we  crossed. 


THE  VOICELESS  PAST. 

r  I  ^OO  much  ye  sound  your  age's  worth. 

Not  now  the  arts  are  having  birth. 
Civilization  is  old  as  earth. 


MONTMORENCL 

i. 

I  "YES  soft  and  sensuous  ; 
•* — '    Languishing  for  love ; 
With  bounteous  passion  full 
And  half  o'erflowing ; 
Lust  scarce  concealed 
Within  their  lustrous  shades  ; 
From  their  liquid  depths 
Suggesting  forbidden  things ; 
Tempting  with  bewitching  grace  ; 
Prisoning  lascivious  thoughts 
That  issue  to  the  light 
As  sun  rays  traverse  the  air, 
Viewless,  silent,  yet  subduing  ; 
Bidding  passion  kindle, 
And  promising  consent ; 
Potent  as  the  sighing  winds  are, 

66 


MONTMORENCI.  57 

And  the  odors  of  flowers, 
When  they  soothe  us  from  toil ; 
Melting  with  dreamy  languor ; 
Passive,  yet  with  a  spell 
That  leaves  no  choice  ; 
Seeming  to  slumber,  yet  awake 
And  strong  in  demands ; 
Steeped  in  tenderness, 
Oppressed  with  desire, 
Beseeching  for  love 
And  the  meed  of  love  — 
Sweet  voluptuary, 
Who  could  resist  their  magic  ? 

II. 

From  their  inner  zones 
A  soul  looks  forth  ; 
It  feeds  on  joy ; 
It  laughs  with  fullness  ; 
It  revels  in  sense. 
Yet  must  it  perish. 
The  flowers  in  hue 
Are  fair  and  matchless. 


58  BE  WARE. 

A  master's  hand 

Cannot  depict  them. 

Yet  the  winds  come 

And  they  perish. 

So  perishes  the  soul 

And  passes  from  being. 

So  fair  a  thing  as  thou 

Must  he  no  more. 

Adore  thy  shrine  of  sense, 

And  live  thy  summer  day  — 

Once  sped,  it  comes  no  more. 


BEWARE. 

WHO  to  her  lover  yields  her  charms 
Ere  wedlock  crowns  his  warm  request, 
Will  leave  her  husband's  drowsy  arms 
To  fold  the  stranger  to  her  breast. 


JULY  TWENTY-FIRST,  1864. 


W 


E  fought  that  not  a  slave  should  be 
From  Polar  snows  to  tropic  sea. 


With  all  the  pageantry  and  pride 

That  ever  Terror's  front  defied 

Since  Satan  dared  a  God  to  scorn, 

We  marched  up  through  the  shining  corn. 

Led  on  by  chiefs  of  iron  mould, 
One  impulse  wild  our  hearts  controlled  — 
One  impulse  wild,  in  wrath  condign 
To  break  the  foe's  unconquered  line. 

No  thoughts  of  home  deterred  us  then, 
No  thoughts  of  love  from  maids  or  men, 
No  fear  of  pain,  no  secret  dread 
Lest  Night  its  mantle  dusk  should  spread 
O'er  vanquished  lines  and  slaughter  red ; 


60  JULY    TWENTY-FIRST,    1864. 

But  like  a  scourge  for  vengeance  sent, 
Lost  in  our  pomp  and  fierce  intent, 
And  proud  to  be  the  hope  forlorn, 
We  marched  up  through  the  shining  corn. 

There  was  a  flash  —  a  blinding  light 
Streamed  down  the  crest  from  left  to  right 
Like  lightnings  flung  from  folds  of  night, 
And  swift  a  crash  of  dread  import 
Rolled  up  from  bastion,  trench,  and  fort ; 
The  cannons  dark  vehement  spoke, 
Destruction  from  its  sleep  awoke, 
And  canopied  amid  the  smoke, 
Its  ghastly  wings  exulting  spread. 
Sulphurous  clouds  in  volumes  dense 
Swayed  slowly  o'er  the  strife  intense, 
And  leaden  hail  with  vengeful  speed 
Smote  down  the  ranks  that  dared  to  lead. 
And  while  we  faced  the  storm  of  death, 
And  struggled  on  with  bated  breath, 
Resolved  to  win,  and  yet  dismayed, 
Confused,  appalled,  yet  scarcely  stayed, 
The  cruel  cheers  of  taunting  foes 


JULY   TWENTY-FIRST,   1864.  61 

From  out  their  shielding  works  arose. 
I  could  not  tell,  for  dust  and  smoke, 
Just  where  our  column  soonest  broke, 
But  backward  hurled  in  rout  complete, 
In  shameful  plight  it  wildly  fled, 
And  flags  ne'er  borne  in  base  retreat, 
Were  furled  above  our  gallant  dead. 
There  was  no  stop,  there  was  no  stay, 
In  massacre  had  closed  the  fray, 
And  frantic  haste  and  mad  dismay 
Impelled  us  down  the  trampled  slope 
Where  late  we  charged  with  dauntless  hope, 
As  though  a  world  would  fail  to  cope 
With  us  in  all  our  stern  array. 
Ah !  saddest  sight  of  any  day. 

A  tiny  stream  stole  down  the  vale 
Where  first  our  storming  column  massed, 
Upon  whose  breast  the  lilies  pale 
Were  once  in  beauty  purely  glassed, 
But  we  had  soiled  it  as  we  passed  — 
Had  marred  its  outlines  with  our  tread  — 
And  here  and  there  a  tint  of  red 


62  JULY  TWENTY-FIRST,    1864. 

Came  floating  down  its  troubled  tide, 

Presaging  that  some  wretch  had  died 

By  shrieking  missile  surely  sped. 

Along  its  margin  halted  all. 

Some  stopped  to  quaff,  and  some  to  fall, 

And  some  to  breathe,  and  some  to  call 

For  friends  they  feared  to  meet  no  more  ; 

And  some  because  of  anguish  sore 

From  wounds  they  scarcely  knew  they  bore ; 

And  all,  because  the  sheltered  spot 

Secured  them  from  the  plunging  shot. 

Anon  the  thunders  died  away, 

The  smoke  dissolved  in  genial  day ; 

The  victors'  hoarse,  incessant  cheers, 

In  painful  clamor  reached  our  ears ; 

And  then  the  air  became  so  still, 

You  might  have  heard  that  tiny  rill 

Go  stealing  o'er  its  sandy  bed, 

Had  not  the  dying  moaned  instead. 


BORN  TO  MISFORTUNE. 

i. 

A     FAIR -HAIRED  child  was  left  to  bear 

The  burden  of  her  mother's  wrong  ; 
To  feel  how  well  the  world  can  spare 
When  boldly  bearded  by  the  strong, 
And  yet  how  soon  it  learns  to  speak 
When  Virtue  bids  it  crush  the  weak. 

II. 

Her  lover  fled  when  vengeance  burst, 
And  she  was  driven  forth  accursed  — 
Expelled  with  blows  and  scornful  jeers 
Alone  to  face  a  thousand  sneers, 
To  be  the  by- word  of  the  horde 
That  gloat  on  Honor  unrestored 
And  Beauty  tarnished  in  its  bloom  — 

63 


64  MONTMORENCI. 

Though  foul  themselves  as  harlots  vile, 
That  swiftly  scent  the  trail  of  guile, 
And  hound  the  erring  to  their  doom 
Yet  deem  they  serve  their  God  the  while. 

ill. 

Above  her  now  no  mourner  weeps  — 
Not  even  a  stone  shows  where  she  sleeps. 


MONTMORENCI. 

T  T  ER  idle  creed  was  quickly  taught  — 

•*--*-    To  wear  her  garlands  while  the  winds  were 

warm; 

To  search  the  fullest  bliss  from  any  lot, 
Nor  trim  her  silken  sails  for  any  storm. 


JADED. 

T   REALIZE  that  all  I  seek 

•*•     Is  transient  as  the  words  we  speak, 

Is  evanescent  as  the  bloom 

Upon  the  rose  just  ere  its  doom 

Is  whispered  by  the  chilling  breeze  — 

You  alone  have  power  to  please. 

I  am  sick  of  toil  —  lo  !  let  us  sin. 
There  are  more  raptures  garnered  in 
One  hour  of  love  with  you  alone 
Than  e'er  Ambition  called  its  own. 

I  am  sick  of  hope  —  it  is  a  cheat 
That  thrills  us  deepest  ere  defeat. 
There  are  more  joys  in  wine  and  thee, 
In  one  brief  moment,  than  the  years 
Have  ever  yielded  unto  me. 
Life  is  bitterness  and  tears. 


H ALCYONE.  QQ 


There  is  no  substance  in  it  all  — 
But  emptiness  and  utter  woe. 
Let  Fame's  reluctant  laurels  fall 
On  other  brows  —  ah !  be  it  so, 
I  little  reck,  so  but  you  smile, 
For  life  is  such  a  little  while 
It  scarce  is  well  to  reach  so  far  — 
To  waste  it  in  such  ceaseless  war ; 
Be  thou  my  solace  and  my  star. 


HAL  07 ONE. 

'\/rOU  caught  more  graces  from  that  scene 

Than  Egypt's  proud  and  fated  queen 
Imperious  wore,  in  Fortune's  smile, 
When,  drifting  o'er  the  placid  Nile, 
The  love  songs  of  her  nymphs  subdued 
The  very  winds  her  galleys  wooed. 


PASSION. 

T  _T  OW  sweet  to  Youth  seems  Passion's  prize, 
"*•          Beyond  all  joys  Time  garners  in ! 
How  yearning  hearts  leap  up  and  fall, 
And  thunder  with  impassioned  call, 
Despising  dreads,  o'er-riding  all, 
To  reach  but  wild  abandon's  sin  ! 
How  through  the  veins  the  swift  blood  flies ; 
How  languor  dims  beseeching  eyes, 
Or  how  those  orbs  intensely  blaze, 
Portraying  with  their  vivid  rays 
The  agony  that  reigns  within  — 
The  tumult  strange,  the  fierce  desire, 
The  mad  intent,  the  raging  fire, 
The  whirlwind  strife  that  soul  and  will 
In  hopelessness  essay  to  still ! 
When  glamoured  o'er  with  Fancy's  hues, 
What  bright  regalia  sin  assumes ! 

67 


68 

How  warm  and  wayward  Youth  imbues 
Each  charnel  scene  with  summer  blooms, 
O'erlooks  each  snare,  and  but  beholds 
Serenest  Joy  where  Pain  unfolds 
Its  hydra  fangs,  or  Woe  consumes  ! 


INO. 


A     ROSIER  cyprian's  footsteps  ne'er  fell 
**•    Along  the  sunny  boundaries  of  Hell. 


TEMPTATION. 

/T~>HERE  is  a  most  delicious  thrill 

-*•       In  coy  Temptation's  soft  approach ; 
It  does  not  rouse  the  angry  will 
With  bold,  free  strides, 
But  steals  its  course  with  matchless  skill, 
As  water  glides. 

In  dainty  whispers  does  it  broach 
The  darkest  deed,  appearing  still 
In  winning  guise. 
It  fascinates  like  serpents'  eyes, 
And  lulls  the  senses  like  a  dream. 
The  blackest  crimes  bewitching  seem 
Beneath  the  magic  of  its  spell ; 
It  lures  the  wayward  thoughts  to  dwell 
Where  e'er  it  choose,  with  subtlest  art; 
Stealthily  it  moulds  the  heart 
To  wild  desires,  and  stills  the  pain 

69 


70  TOM  PAINE. 

That  Conscience  gives ;  then  the  dull  brain 
Applauds  the  deed,  and  loosens  rein. 
Or,  with  hot  and  frantic  haste, 
Awakes  to  horrors  half  embraced, 
And  seeks  supremacy  again. 


TOM  PAINE. 


T  TNANSWERED  and  unmatched  he  died 
^-"^      The  free  alone  revere  his  name. 


A  KANSAS  PICTURE. 

,  on  through  wastes  untamed  and  dread, 
Our  lone  and  silent  marches  led ; 
Wide  stretched  the  plains,  untouched  by  man, 
Where  still  and  solemn  rivers  ran ; 
Green  rose  the  woods  beneath  a  sky 
That  heard  no  sounds,  and  far  and  nigh 
Within  the  horizon's  vast  belt, 
A  world  spread  out  wherein  there  dwelt 
No  throne  of  power  to  set  aright 
The  ruthless  wrongs  imposed  by  Might, 
Or  wreaked  by  Hate,  or  wrought  by  Lust, 
No  safe-guard  that  the  weak  might  trust, 
No  lofty  court  of  last  appeal, 
No  law  save  that  the  rudest  feel    • 
Within  their  hearts  ;  naught  to  oppose 
Marauder's  craft  or  ruffian's  blows  — 
Only  Nature's  grand  repose. 


71 


OPPORTUNITY. 

IT  OW  vain  are  Wisdom's  mandates  cold, 
•*•   *•     The  voice  of  precept  or  of  creed  ; 

How  vain  example  may  unfold 

Its  logic  stern, 

Or  Honor  burn 

With  lofty  zeal  to  intercede  ; 

How  passing  vain,  in  Beauty's  need, 

Are  all  prevailing  powers  of  good, 

If  but  she  list,  in  tacit  mood,     • 

To  soft  Temptation's  siren  call, 

And  Circumstance  approve  her  fall ! 

It  little  recks  who  wooes  her  then  — 

Too  soon  she  wails  o'er  what  hath  been. 

72 


aLENDARE. 

T_  T  E  loved  to  view  roused  Nature's  rage, 

And  read,  as  from  a  written  page, 
The  signs  she  traced  on  mountains  hoar, 
On  flaming  skies,  on  seas  in  pain, 
On  rushing  stream  or  beaten  shore, 
On  quaking  hill  or  ravaged  plain. 
Where  e'er  she  wrote  he  loved  to  read ; 
And  if  her  tameless  instincts  chose 
The  rending  whirlwind  for  a  steed, 
And  sin-stained  cities  for  her  foes, 
He  murmured  not  —  he  had  no  cause 
To  pity  where  such  hatred  dwelt  — 
Revenge  was  all  of  human  laws, 
Before  whose  shrine  he  willing  knelt ; 
And  had  some  horror  menaced  earth, 
Some  scourge  to  sweep  from  land  to  land, 
Could  he  have  stayed  it  at  its  birth, 

78 


74  "  THE  LAST  MAN:' 

He  had  withheld  his  saving  hand. 
Condemn  such  spirit  ye  who  will, 
The  world's  own  lessons  teach  it  still. 


THE  LAST  MAN:' 


A  LL  human  forms  may  vanish  quite, 

Like  races  now  extinct, 
And  still  the  world  roll  on. 


THE  DREAMS  OF  THE  STARVING-* 

I  ^ITFUL  sleep  was  purchased  by  exhaustion, 
And  like  the  trance  brought  on  by  subtle 

drugs, 

Teemed  with  strange,  voluptuous  fancies. 
No  more  a  starving  wretch  the  dreamer  seemed, 
No  more  the  bitter  taunts  of  heartless  foes 
Set  baffled  hatred  rankling  in  his  soul, 
Hopeless  of  the  day  when  vengeance  might  be  won; 
But,  like  an  oriental  king,  he  trod 
The  halls  of  gorgeous  palaces,  spacious, 
Fantastic,  and  unreal,  yet  wherein 
Were  banquets  spread  of  such  luxurious  state 
The  gods  from  high  Olympus  might  have  come 
And  gorged  themselves  like  heedless  wantons. 
Anon  he  lolled  on  beds  of  dying  flowers, 
Whose  odors  through  his  drunken  senses  stole 

*  Anderson  vllle. 
75 


76  THE  DREAMS  OF  THE   STARVING. 

Like  soothing  and  sensuous  narcotics, 
And  music  swelled  and  perished  on  the  air, 
And  around  him  thronged  more  beauteous  nymphs 
Than  e'er  were  bred  on  famed  Circassia's  hills, 
Laden  with  luscious  fruits  from  many  lands. 
Yet  when  at  length  in  indolence  he  smiled, 
And  reached  his  languid  hand  to  pluck  and  eat, 
The  vision  vanished,  and  he  woke  to  rave 
With  growing  madness  —  to  beat  his  breast, 
Or  from  his  crown  to  rend  the  matted  hair. 
Or  like  a  demon  to  yell  till  the  vales 
And  silent,  solemn  woods  gave  back  reply. 


ON    THE   WING. 


1870-1871. 


MEXICO  IN  PROSPECT. 


\  T  7HEN  the  flood-tides  of  fortune  have  swept 
*  *  me  afar, 

Have  wafted  my  bark  to  the  lands  of  the  sun, 
O,  leave  the  fair  gates  of  your  Mem'ry  ajar, 

And  think,  O,  think  of  the  wandering  one. 


While  strangers  and  aliens  encompass  me  then, 

And  the  sad  heart  turns  to  its  happier  day, 
O,  waste  you  a  thought  for  the  times  that  have 

been, 

And  a  thought  for  the  perils  that  darken  my 
way. 

When  the  treacherous  foeman  beleaguers  our  path, 
And  hosts  embattled  are  gathering  near, 

How  oft  will  I  turn  from  their  threatening  wrath, 
To  ponder  on  one  remembered  and  dear. 

79 


8u  MEXICO  IN  PROSPECT. 

When  the  cannon's  deep  echo,  and  musketry's 
crash, 

Roll  o'er  the  fields  ensanguined  with  gore  ; 
When  the  columns  contending,  invincibly  rash, 

Their  murderous  volleys  incessantly  pour  ; 

When  the  plains  shake  with  carnage,  the  mountains 

with  dread, 
And  the  atmosphere  quakes  with  the  hideous 

roar, 

O,  then  will  I  think  of  the  days  that  are  fled, 
The  halcyon  days  returning  no  more. 

When  the  wild  cheers  of  triumph  sweep  up  to  the 
sky, 

And  drown  the  fierce  contest's  tumultuous  din, 
O,  then  will  I  spurn  their  encomiums  high, 

To  ponder  on  one  whom  I  dared  never  win. 


FRANCE. 

BLEEDING  and  grand,  yet  fallen  land, 

Whose  splendor  has  vanished  for  aye, 
What  touch  can  restore  that  masterly  hand 
That  pointed  thy  legions  the  magical  way 
To  triumphs  so  vast  the  world  stood  aghast, 

And  wondering  gazed  on  thy  towering  might, 
While  kingdoms  went  down  before  the  wild  blast 

That  swelled  from  the  tumult  of  fight? 
O,  if  the  wierd  grave  could  yield  up  thy  brave, 

Embattled  beneath  the  great  Corsican's  glance, 
While  he  led  them  on,  thy  glories  to  save, 

What  arm  could  arrest  their  haughty  advance? 
If  Helena's  lone  king  to  the  contest  could  spring, 

With  power  to  marshal  and  hosts  to  obey, 
How  nations  would  tremble  and  Europe  wotdd 

ring, 

As  he  smote  the  stern  monarch  who  cumbers 
thy  way ! 
6A  * 


82  FRANCE. 

O,  if  the  proud  dead  could  gaze  from  o'erhead, 

To  pity  the  throes  of  thy  terrible  pain, 
How  Napoleon  would  mourn  o'er  thy  majesty  fled, 

And  chafe  to  be  with  you  again ! 
How  his  falchion  bright,  through  the  varying  fight, 

Would  flash  like  the  lightnings  of  God  ; 
And  how  the  foe  in  affright  would  fly  from  his 
sight, 

Or  crouch  where  the  conqueror  trod ! 
How  Destruction  would  spread  with  a  mantle  of 
dead, 

The  fields  where  his  thunderbolts  fell ; 
And  how  the  plains  where  his  vengeance  impetuous 
sped 

Would  glow  like  the  portals  of  Hell ! 
But  his  fierce  race  is  run,  and  his  work  is  undone, 

And  Destiny  mocks  at  his  powerless  pain, 
And  the  eagle  that  soared  till  it  challenged  the  sun, 

Back  to  the  earth  must  flutter  again. 


CLEARlNa   THE   COAST  OF  TEXAS. 

r  I  "HE  crescent  shores  are  dazzling  bright 

Beneath  the  sunset's  glow, 
And,  deluged  with  the  yellow  light, 
The  distant  headlands  woo  the  sight, 
As  gleaming  o'er  the  billows  white 
They  check  the  ocean's  inward  flow. 

Slow  sinks  the  sun  within  the  west, 

Obscured  behind  his  golden  fleece ; 
The  lambent  glory  round  his  crest 
Sinks  on  the  ocean's  lonely  breast, 
And  lights  the  surge's  wild  unrest, 

Till  Night  command  the  pageant  cease. 

Then  dark  the  clouds  sweep  o'er  the  sky, 

Responsive  to  the  tempest's  roar ; 
The  angry  waters  struggle  high, 


84  CLEARING    THE   COAST  OF  TEXAS. 

And  vainly  seeks  the  weary  eye 
To  pierce  the  gloomy  wastes  that  lie 
Between  it  and  the  fading  shore. 

The  vessel  plunges  on  its  way, 

Our  native  clime  is  past, 
Our  track  is  through  the  ocean  spray ; 
And  where  the  fearful  breakers  lay, 
And  where  the  whirlwind  seeks  its  prey, 

We  still  must  fly  before  the  blast. 

Perchance  the  gale  that  drives  us  on 

May  sweep  us  to  our  doom ; 
Perchance  the  stars,  so  pale  and  wan, 
May  see  the  last  lorn  prospect  gone, 
And  ere  the  light  of  laggard  dawn 
Our 'minute  gun  may  boom. 

Ah  !  fiercer  yet  the  tempest  swells, 
And  darker  yet  the  heavens  grow  ; 

A  deeper  shade  o'er  midnight  tells, 

The  blast  shrieks  like  a  demon's  yells ; 

Dread  thunders  rumble  forth  their  knells 
In  monodies  of  woe. 


CLEARING    THE   COAST  OF  TEXAS.  85 

Ah  !  what  a  scene  on  which  to  gaze  — 

The  ocean  lashed  to  foam, 
While  mountain  high  the  billows  raise, 
And  in  its  lurid  splendor  plays 
The  baleful  lightning's  angry  blaze, 

Imperious  in  its  cloudy  home. 

In  fragments  hang  the  bursted  sails, 
The  masts  bend  low  but  do  not  break ; 

The  sternest  eye  a  moment  quails, 

The  warmest  cheek  a  moment  pales, 

The  firmest  heart  a  moment  fails, 
And  nerves  of  iron  shake. 

But  true  the  oak  as  massive  steel, 

Back  to  its  place  it  springs  again, 
And  while  the  sullen  thunders  peal, 
And  ghastly  horrors  round  us  steal, 
And  stricken  cravens  frenzied  kneel, 
Down  sweep  the  storms  of  frozen  rain. 

The  slippery  deck  with  ice  is  laid, 

Beware  the  surge  that  sweeps  it  o'er, 
For  vain  the  hand  that 's  stretched  for  aid, 
GB 


86  CLEARING    THE    COAST  OF    TEXAS. 

And  vain  the  cry  for  succor  made, 
When  hero  hearts  become  afraid 
That  never  cringed  before. 

Some  hideous  power  directs  the  gale, 
Some  hellish  spirit  seems  to  reign  ; 
Above  the  prow  the  waters  scale, 
And  should  the  flimsy  hatches  fail, 
Our  fate  may  form  some  solemn  tale 
To  warn  the  daring  from  the  main. 

But  gallant  forms  spring  up  the  mast 

And  cling  to  yards  that  dip  the  spray. 
And  while  the  ship  is  hurled  and  cast 
As  though  each  moment  were  its  last, 
They  furl  the  canvas  from  the  blast, 
And  set  the  hurricane  at  bay. 


IN  CUBAN  WATERS. 

OLO"W  moves  the  vessel  on  her  weary  way, 
^     The  dying  breeze  scarce  fans  the  tide, 
And  rainbows  gather  o'er  the  spray 

That  feebly  dashes  from  her  side  ; 
The  surges  in  colossal  slumbers  lay, 

And  furl  their  crests  of  foamy  pride ; 
The  nautilus  scarcely  deigns  to  ride 

Upon  its  voyages  to  fairy  land, 
But  leans  upofi  its  satin  side 

As  anchored  by  some  human  hand, 
And  lures  the  daybeams  as  they  glide 

From  sunny  sea  to  lovely  land. 
The  gorgeous  sky  with  brilliant  tints 

Is  grandly  rich  within  the  west, 
And  golden  rods  from  heavenly  mints 

Down  in  the  tide  are  deeply  pressed. 

87 


$  IN  CUBAN    WATERS. 

The  land  lolls  in  the  drowsy  blaze, 

The  groves  hang  down  their  haughty  heads, 
The  mountains  blue  undaunted  gaze 

Whence  all  the  glow  of  splendor  spreads  ; 
And  such  a  beauty  gathers  round 

The  earth,  and  seas,  and  skies, 
I  wonder  if  a  soul  e'er  found 

A  fairer  clime  in  Paradise. 


ON  THE    WESTERN  OCEAN. 

r  I  "HERE  'S  a  surging  sea  before  us, 

*-       And  a  gloomy  waste  around, 
And  the  angry  heavens  o'er  us 

All  day  have  darkly  frowned, 
And  the  gale  that  seems  to  master 

All  things  that  meet  the  eye, 
But  drives  us  on  the  faster 

Where  hidden  perils  lie. 
All  nature  seems  in  travail, 

The  billows  e'en  complain, 
Then  who  shall  sneer  or  cavil 

With  cynical  disdain, 
If  I  shall  own  a  sadness 

As  Memory  portrays 
Those  scenes  of  glowing  gladness 

We  knew  in  other  days  ? 
Those  fleeting  scenes  of  pleasure 

89 


90  ON   THE   WESTERN  OCEAN. 

That  sped  so  swift  away, 
When  Joy  filled  up  its  measure 

And  ev'ry  heart  was  gay ; 
When  Youth  with  haughty  madness, 

The  gauntlet  flung  to  care, 
And  never  sigh  or  sadness 

Could  hope  to  enter  there  — 
When  we  crowned  the  hours  with  roses, 

Nor  marked  them  as  they  went, 
Nor  how  each  year  discloses 

Some  deeper  discontent ; 
Nor  dreamed  how  soon  our  number 

Would  be  a  broken  thing, 
Nor  who  would  lowly  slumber 

Beneath  the  flowers  of  spring  ; 
Nor  heeded  we  the  morrow 

Nor  what  its  dawn  would  bring, 
Nor  feared  we  hand  of  sorrow, 

The  aching  heart  to  wring. 
Then  fill  the  hours  with  gladness, 

And  revel  while  ye  may, 
For  life  is  full  of  sadness  — 

Ah  !  whirl  it  swift  away. 


SAINT  GEORGE'S   CHANNEL    ON  A 
CLEAR  DAT. 


r~TTHE  glassy  tide  in  its  dormant  pride 

Spreads  boundless  beneath  the  sun, 
And  a  misty  haze  on  the  horizon  lays 

Like  the  smoke  of  a  battle  won  ; 
And  the  breezes  bland  from  the  shadowy  land 

Steal  lazily  on  their  way, 
And  the  sea-nymphs  hid  imperiously  bid 

Meridian  splendors  play. 
There  's  many  a  scene  with  shores  as  green, 

And  billowy  wastes  as  fair, 

Where  the  lineaments  bold  of  the  mountain  peaks 
cold 

Loom  out  on  the  dreamy  air  ; 
And  the  Master's  hand  in  characters  grand 

Has  written  his  emblems  of  might, 
And  the  sea  and  the  land  are  daintily  planned 

To  thrill  the  lone  heart  with  delight  ; 

91 


92    ST.  GEORGE'S  CHANNEL  ON  A   CLEAR  DA  Y. 

And  the  eye  may  range  through  measureless  change 

And  limitless  regions  of  light  — 
But,  ah !  choose  for  me  this  beautiful  sea 

As  it  glitters  beneath  the  sun, 
And  a  misty  haze  on  the  horizon  lays 

Like  the  smoke  of  a  battle  won. 


THE  TOMB    OF  BYRON. 

r  I  ^HE  gloomy  church  in  grand  decay, 

*-       Seems  fitted  for  his  last  repose. 
Eight  centuries  have  passed  away 

Since  first  in  majesty  it  rose, 
And  yet  in  massive  strength  it  stands, 

A  monument  of  cycles  flown  ; 
Ah !  withered  are  the  faithful  hands 

That  reared  aloft  its  ancient  stone. 
Around  its  walls,  now  aged  and  hoar, 

A  thousand  graves  are  thickly  spread, 
Where  sleep  the  valor  and  the  lore 

That  once  in  field  and  forum  led. 
Their  shattered  slabs,  "beneath  the  sun 

Recount  no  tales  of  honors  past  — 
Their  epitaphs  have  one  by  one 

Been  blotted  out  by  rain  or  blast. 
The  rose-flecked  vines,  in  mantles  wide, 


94  THE    TOMB   OF  BYRON. 

Stream  o'er  the  windows  stained  within, 
As  though  in  tenderness  to  hide 

Their  images  from  outward  sin, 
And  as  the  breeze,  with  gentlest  care, 

The  inflorescence  softly  sways, 
A  mournful  sigh  steals  on  the  air 

That  murmurs  of  departed  days. 
The  aisles  are  dim  with  softened  light, 

The  pillars  old  are  dusk  and  bare, 
And  here  and  there  a  tablet  white 

Records  whose  bones  are  crumbling  there. 
Strange  shadows  move  at  Fancy's  freak, 

And  silence  reigns  so  deep  and  dread 
'Twere  sacrilegious  but  to  speak, 

For  'neath  the  stones  on  which  you  tread. 
Secure  from  Slander's  venomed  tongue, 

Or  ruthless  Hatred's  reeking  blade, 
Shrined  only  by  the  songs  he  sung, 

The  bard  of  all  the  world  is  laid. 


THE    VOICE    OF   THE    WINDS. 

A  H  !  dark  and  austere,  and  savagely  drear, 
^*    The  wide  waters  spread  to  the  fathomless  sea, 
And  the  winds  that  arose  from  their  sullen  repose, 
Had  a  myriad  voices  for  me. 

When  the  zephyrs  that  float  from  the  rich  glowing 
west, 

Oft  thrill  us  with  murmurs  and  sighs, 
And  the  gales  that  disturb  the  face  of  the  deep 

Sound  the  paeans  of  turbulent  skies, 

Who  doubts  that  the  mind,  in  sadder  refrains, 
Can  interpret  the  burden  so  solemnly  sung, 

Can  gather  from  Nature's  gloomier  strains 
A  weightier  wisdom  than  eloquent  tongue 

Ere  thundered  from  altar  or  forum  profound 
To  listening  masses  low  bended  in  awe  — 

95 


96  THE    VOICE   OF   THE    WINDS. 

A  weightier  wisdom,  that  vaults  o'er  the  bound 
That  encircles  Jehovah's  inscrutable  Law  ? 

I  believe  that  these  sounds,  though  mystic  and 
crude, 

Are  lessons  that  from  Omnipotence  fall, 
And  that  the  mind,  when  in  a  sensitive  mood, 

Can  ponder  and  fathom  them  all. 

And  as  I  stood  on  the  steep  that  looked  o'er  the  sea, 
And  the  winds  came  forth  to  trouble  the  night, 

A  magical  lore  seemed  given  to  me 
To  read  their  wierd  symphonies  right. 


- 


NAPOLEON  IN  OBSCURITY. 


( Written  in  the  Garden  of  the  Tuileries.) 


X/'OUNG,  lithe,  erect,  slight  as  a  girl, 

Soldier-like  iri  step,  with  bearing  proud ; 
Dark  hair  that  fell  in  wave  and  curl 
Upon  his  shoulders  like  a  cloud 
Wherein  the  tempest  finds  a  home  ; 
Firm  lips  that  spoke  a  will  of  steel  — 
Unchangeable  as  Heaven's  dome ; 
Fierce  eyes  whose  glance  you  half  could  feel, 
So  piercingly  they  gazed  ;  whose  glow 
Was  eloquent  of  lofty  woe, 
Imperial  pride,  unflinching  zeal, 
And  slumb'ring  yet  transcendant  power  ; 
(In  bitter  gloom  they  seemed  to  lower 
On  vacant  air,  as  though  his  brain 
7  OT 


98  NAPOLEON  IN  OBSCURITY. 

Revolved  deep  thoughts  of  savage  pain 

He  would  not  banish,  and  then  they  grew 

Triumphant  in  their  baleful  hue 

As  though  Imagination  threw 

Around  some  scheme  you  could  not  guess, 

The  halo  of  profound  success  ;) 

Features  fair,  cast  in  heroic  mould, 

For  avarice  had  ne'er  controlled 

His  thoughts,  to  stamp  its  craven  lines 

Upon  his  brow,  nor  passions  base, 

Since  each  low  pursuit  swift  defines 

Its  hideous  brand  or  secret  trace  ; 

An  air  that  haughtily  bespoke 

One  born  not  for  Oppression's  yoke, 

But  framed  by  nature  for  command ; 

One  who  had  been,  in  some  soft  land, 

Enthroned  in  ease,  a  poet  grand, 

Whose  stormy  numbers  idly  flung 

To  listening  throngs,  had  rung 

Through  all  the  world,  till  nations  hung 

Upon  the  music  of  his  tongue, 

Or  on  his  harp's  impassioned  strain, 

Bewildered  and  enrapt ;  yet  one, 


NAPOLEON  IN  OBSCURITY.  99 

Had  Treason  dared  its  horrid  reign 

O'er  empires  stricken  and  undone, 

Had  seized  the  helm  of  State,  or  sword, 

And  scattered  far  Dissension's  horde, 

Or  fiercely  hurled  Invasion  back 

To  whence  it  came  —  one  who  did  not  lack 

The  gentler  weaknesses  that  win 

The  humbler  myriads  to  sin 

And  luxury,  and  sloth,  but  who 

Around  his  soul  such  cordons  drew 

Of  stern  resolves,  that  Beauty's  bloom 

Was  baffled  by  his  sullen  gloom ; 

That  Pleasure  spread  for  him  in  vain 

Its  Circean  toils,  and  wanton  Ease 

Was  powerless  to  forge  a  chain 

So  coyly  screened  he  could  not  seize 

And  rend  in  twain. 

Such  was  the  chief  ere  yet  his  name 

Was  blazoned  on  the  scroll  of  fame. 


AT  THE  ALTAE. 

r  I  CHOUGH  scarcely  false,  and  yet  not  true, 

May  never  woe  confound  thee ; 
May  peace  upon  thy  footsteps  wait, 

And  myriad  joys  surround  thee. 
May  troops  of  friends  be  ever  near, 

May  tender  lips  caress  thee  ; 
May  ev'ry  weal  that  mortals  know 

Be  ever  nigh  to  bless  thee. 
May  noble  thoughts  and  righteous  aims 

In  kindly  deeds  employ  thee, 
And  never  sad  or  secret  fear 

With  sombre  hand  annoy  thee. 
May  wealth  throw  round  thy  pathway  fair 

Its  jewels  without  number, 
And  restless  thoughts  of  other  days 

In  ceaseless  quiet  slumber. 
May  health  weave  round  thy  happy  home 
100 


AT  THE  ALTAR.  101 

A  cordon  for  thy  blessing, 
And  genial  words  and  gentle  smiles, 

Of  truest  love  confessing, 
Be  ever  thine  to  make  thy  life 

A  journey  strewn  with  roses, 
Nor  ever  Fortune  teach  thee  where 

A  single  grief  reposes. 


POEMS   OF  CAMP  AND 
FIELD. 


1862-1865. 


OFF  TO  THE  WARS. 


A  DIEU,  sweet  maids  of  honor  frail, 
•*--*•     And  charms  too  fair  to  last ; 
Adieu,  each  dear  and  sunny  vale, 

Where  happiest  hours  have  passed ; 
Where  sweeps  Destruction's  lurid  gale 

My  future  lot  is  cast. 


106 


A  CASUAL  REFLECTION. 

'T^HE  special  talents  that  secure  a  rope 

Are  also  requisite  to  win  a  star ; 
And  to  rob  a  scoundrel  of  his  future  hope, 

And  send  him  howling  to  his  Maker's  bar, 
Is  but  to  teach  the  ribald  crowd 

That  gathers  round  your  scaffold  base, 
That  had  you  fled  the  hangman's  shroud 

You  might  have  led  in  Glory's  god  -like  chase. 
To  cut  a  throat,  or  fire  a  town, 

Or  lead  battalions  down  to  death, 
Are  but  varied  routes  ta  fair  renown, — 

That  empty  bubble  of  mortal  breath. 

106 


IN  LINE  OF  BATTLE. 

T  SIT  beside  the  flowing  stream, 
A      And  Fancy's  hand  is  weaving  fast 
The  fabric  of  a  happy  dream 
Too  deep  with  joy  to  last. 

I  see  no  more  the  camp-fires  red, 
The  ranks  impatient  for  the  fray, 

The  tents  o'er  hill  and  lowland  spread, — 
My  vagrant  thoughts  are  far  away. 

I  dream  of  home  and  distant  friends, 
Of  wild  woods  dear  in  childhood's  day, 

And,  careless  that  the  strife  impends, 
I  farther  launch  my  thoughts  away. 

I  dream  of  every  peaceful  scene 

Where  early  footsteps  loved  to  stray, 

As  by  my  couch  of  tufted  green 
My  burnished  arms  unheeded  lay. 

107 


108  IN  LINE  OF  BATTLE. 

I  mark  no  more  the  pomp  of  war, 

Nor  lines  of  glowing  steel, 
Nor  cannons  old  with  rust  and  scar 

To  make  battalions  reel. 

I  dream  of  haunts  where  sunny  days 
Were  never  dark  with  woe, 

Ere  Combat  bid  our  cities  blaze, 
And  hurled  us  on  the  foe. 

I  dream  that  strife  has  ceased  to  be, 
And  Danger's  paths  no  more  we  tread, 

That  shackled  States  once  more  are  free, 
And  fields  no  more  with  blood  are  red. 

I  dream  that  all  the  sweet  delights 
That  Youth  can  hope  to  win, 

Have  called  us  from  these  gory  fights, 
And  hemmed  their  horrors  in. 

Yet,  as  beside  the  flowing  stream 
I  mark  no  more  the  pomp  of  war, 

But  idly  dream  my  happy  dream, 
The  sullen  cannons  roar  afar. 


CORINTH. 

A  BOUT  the  souls  of  gallant  men 
^•^     Does  Glory  weave  a  subtle  spell, 
And  yet  her  voice  is  but  a  knell, 
A  siren  sound,  a  fleeting  breath, 
That  rises  from  the  sullen  grave 
To  animate  the  thoughtless  brave, 
And  crown  their  manly  toils  with  death. 

109 


HO!  FOR  VICKSBURa. 

r  I  "\HE  call  hath  come  —  we  must  away  ! 

Farewell  this  green  and  flowery  spot, 
And  welcome  now  the  banners  gay, 

And  now  the  howl  of  rifle  shot, 
And  let  the  battle  lightnings  play, 

For  Northland  warriors  falter  not. 

Farewell,  once  more,  the  quiet  camp ; 

Farewell  ye  scenes  where  roses  bloom  ; 
And  welcome  now  the  host's  dull  tramp, 

And  clash  of  arms,  and  waving  plume  ; 
For  ere  young  Luna  lights  her  lamp 

We  '11  hear  the  foeman's  cannon  boom. 

Farewell  ye  fields  and  forests  green, 
Ye  have  lost  your  charms  for  me  ; 
I  would  not  linger  though  a  queen 
no 


HO!  FOR    VICKSBURG. 

Arrayed  her  halls  of  dance  in  thee, 

For  my  spirit  longs  for  a  wilder  scene, 

And  the  silvery  cheers  of  victory. 

Vicksburg's  walls  are  proud  and  high, 
And  Death  sits  throned  upon  her  steep  ; 

But  when  our  iron  engines  ply 

We  '11  rouse  her  from  her  giant's  sleep  ; 

And  if  beneath  her  walls  we  die, 

O'er  nobler  graves  who  could  weep  ? 


ONCE  MORE  TO  THE  CAMPS. 

IV  /T  Y  cheek  is  pale,  my  pulse  beats  fast, 
^  *  ^      My  limbs  are  faint  and  sore  ; 
I  shiver  in  this  wintry  blast, 

I  tremble  at  its  roar, 
And  shall  my  dreary  lot  be  cast 

Amid  this  Northland  hoar  ? 

No  more  for  me  the  leaden  cloud 

Will  frown  along  the  sky  ; 
No  more  for  me  the  tempest  loud 

Will  howl  and  shriek  and  sigh ; 
No  more  for  me  in  snowy  shroud 

The  King  of  Ice  will  whirl  on  high. 

No  more  for  me  the  cutting  cold 

Will  range  the  frosty  air ; 
No  more  for  me  o'er  heath  and  wold 

The  winds  will  chorus  of  despair ; 


FORTITUDE.  H3 

No  more  for  me  the  snows  will  fold 
Their  robes  o'er  all  that 's  fair. 

Farewell  this  drear  and  hostile  clime, 

It  has  no  beauties  for  my  soul ; 
Its  very  streams,  with  notes  sublime, 

To  the  southern  valleys  roll ; 
Why  waste  I  here  my  fleeting  time 

In  this  desert  of  my  soul  ? 

Huzza  1  for  the  vine  hills  far  away  ! 

For  the  fields  with  cotton  white  ! 
Huzza  !  for  the  land  of  genial  day, 

And  the  land  of  radiant  night ! 
Huzza !  for  the  land  of  fierce  affray, 

Of  sun,  and  song,  and  fight ! 


FORTITUDE. 

T  F  the  tried  spirit  do  not  bend, 

There  thrives  no  woe  that  will  not  end. 
8 


WAR. 

O  prate  to  fools  of  Glory's  breath, 

Of  honors  won  amid  the  fray  ; 
Of  daring  deeds  in  face  of  death, 

Where  hecatombs  are  swept  away  ; 
Of  all  the  idle  pomp  of  fame, 

Of  laurels  dyed  in  human  gore  ; 
Of  grateful  cities'  high  acclaim. 

And  History's  immortal  score  ; 
Of  all  the  horrors  knaves  invent 

To  minister  to  gain  ; 
Of  all  the  scourges  ever  sent 

To  thrive  on  misery  and  pain. 
I  hate  them  all — the  foes  of  weal, 

The  ruthless  reapers  of  the  grave  ; 
Fools  only  fight  while  scoundrels  steal, 

And  cities  spurn  their  mangled  brave ; 


WAR. 


The  flimsy  wreath  soon  fades  away, 
The  dauntless  lines  are  soon  forgot, 

And  Death  exults  above  his  prey, 
And  haunts  alone  the  bloody  spot. 


YOUTHFUL    POEMS. 


1865-1868. 


ON  THE  KANSAS  PLAINS. 

\  H  !  cursed  fiends,  with  subtle  hands 
^•^     Ye  ply  your  lurid  master's  trade 
Where  cities  mar  unhappy  lands 

That  God  in  beauty  made, 
But  not  within  the  desert  free 

Ye  bid  the  flowers  of  Pleasure  fade, 
Nor  can  your  reign  untrammeled  be 

.Within  the  boundless  forest's  shade  ; 
Nor  where  mountain  streams  in  sunlight  dance 

Can  Care,  thy  minion  stern,  intrude, 
To  wither  with  his  baleful  glance 

The  happy  realms  of  solitude. 
No  !  the  desert  yet  is  free  from  Care, 

Its  breezes  bear  no  drear  refrain 
To  bid  the  aching  heart  despair, 

Or  wake  anew  the  pangs  of  pain. 
O,  had  I  some  weird  Olympian  power 

119 


120  ON  THE   KANSAS  PLAINS. 

To  mould  the  universe  anew, 
Proud  capitals  should  be  the  dower 

Of  Destruction's  hungry  crew  ; 
Red  Riot  for  his  ragged  horde 

Should  win  a  surfeit  for  a  day, 
And  Might  should  vainly  lift  its  sword 

To  bid  the  panting  rabble  stay. 
Then  the  earth  I  'd  sweep  with  Phaetonic  fire, 

And  its  proud,  pretentious  realms  destroy ; 
Avarice  should  see  each  grasping  wretch  expire 

O'er  the  dull  hoards  that  formed  his  joy  ; 
Pride  should  see  her  pampered  knaves 

O'er  their  heaped -up  plumage  wail ; 
Oppression  with  its  cringing  slaves 

Should  perish  in  the  fiery  gale ; 
Hypocrisy  should  vainly  seek  to  hide 

With  cloak  and  mask  its  hideous  form  ; 
Civilization,  with  brilliant  crime  allied, 

Should  crumble  in  the  wrathful  storm. 
Every  vestige  of  man's  unnatural  life 

Should  be  sternly  swept  away, 
And  when  the  elements  had  ceased  their  strife, 

And  the  winged  lightnings  their  vengeful  play, 


ON  THE  KANSAS  PLAINS.  121 

The  pitying  heavens  should  kindly  weep, 
And  with  green  verdure  robe  the  soil 

Where  joyless  serfs  now  sow  and  reap 
Or  sink  beneath  their  ceaseless  toil ; 

And  where  gilded  cities  groan  with  crime. 
And  Fashion  holds  her  gaudy  reign. 

There  should  dawn  another  halcyon  time, 
And  the  free  forests  should  spring  up  again  : 

And  the  grand  old  streams,  unmeant  for  slaves, 
Should  murmur  wild  and  lawless  strains, 

And  as  sunshine  lit  their  silver  waves. 
Go  winding  through  unbounded  plains  ; 
And  the  swelling  hills,  from  man  reclaimed, 

.Should  bear  profuse  their  grasses  tall, 
Where  countless  herds  should  roam  untamed 

And  be  the  common  wealth  of  all. 
And  the  lordly  crags,  where  threat'ning  shines 

The  enginery  of  pain  and  death, 
Should  scarcely  bear  their  weight  of  vines 

To  woo  the  south  wind's  balmy  breath. 
Earth  should  be  for  all  —  not  for  the  hateful  few 

Who  rear  them  Babels  like  the  fools  of  old, 
And  thrust  aside  the  good  and  true 


122  ON  THE  KANSAS  PLAINS. 

Who  scorn  their  gods  of  senseless  gold. 
No  narrow  lines  should  check  the  flowing  will, 

Or  bid  the  careless  wand'rer  stay  ; 
No  turbid  stream  or  tiny  rill 

Should  bound  a  prince  o    nabob's  sway. 
Man's  will,  like  the  summer  wind, 

Should  be  unchecked,  unfettered,  free, — 
None  should  seek  to  rule  or  bind, 

But  all  as  equal  lords  should  be. 
No  low  sprung  rules  should  dare  to  chain 

Each  burning  impulse  of  the  human  breast ; 
But  License,  like  a  glorious  queen,  should  reign, 

Her  laws  the  first,  the  wildest,  and  the  best. 
Ah  !  Earth  for  once  should  truly  be 

What  grey  old  sages  oft  have  planned, 
And  Man  for  once  so  truly  free 
That  not  a  fruit  on  Eden's  tree 

But  should  grow  for  any  hand. 


THE  LOST  GENIUS. 


THE    TALE    OP    A    SUICIDE. 

'TIS  hell  to  feel  within  the  mind 

Those  god-like  traits  that  lead  to  fame, 
And  yet  be  fettered  and  confined 
Within  a  field  prescribed  and  tame. 
Doomed  to  a  dull  life  of  sluggish  shame, 
And  with  no  higher,  wilder  aim 
Than  to  follow  the  round  of  foul  routine, 
When  did  not  Fate  some  baser  idol  claim 
The  nations  might  tremble  at  your  name, 
And  Glory  gild  it  with  her  golden  sheen ! 
Whine  o'er  your  woes,  O  lachrymosial  crew  — 
Make  shrines  and  bow  to  sirens  fair — 
In  sad  ecstacy  dream  o'er  eyes  of  blue, 
O'er  cheeks  a-bloom,  o'er  queenly  hair, 
O'er  bosoms  white  as  Sierra's  snows, 
And  glowing  forms  beyond  compare 

123 


124  THE  LOST  GENIUS. 

That  rival  arms  must  yield  repose 
Till  roused  by  cold  neglect  and  care, 
And  mourn  that  charms  so  warmly  sought 
Should  bless  or  curse  some  taunting  foe  ; 
In  savage  wrath  upbraid  the  lot 
That  Heaven  ne'er  designed  for  woe, 
Nut  ah  !  till  ye  've  felt  the  racking  throes 
That  baffled  ambition  feels 
Talk  not  of  grief!     A  sensual  passion  grows 
Dead  with  time,  and  the  wound  heals, 
But  a  hopeless,  burning  thirst  for  fame 
Is  quenched  alone  with  a  lifeless  frame. 

Thus,  too,  deemed  the  sullen  chief ;  he  longed  to 

die, 

And  explore  the  mysteries  of  the  grave, 
Nor  cared  what  darkened  fate  might  lie 
Beyond  Death's  weird  and  silent  wave. 
No  idle  fable  checked  his  soaring  thought  — 
No  scroll  with  utter  folly  sealed, 
To  prophecy  the  mystic  lot 
That  Heaven  never  yet  revealed. 
In  scorn  he  left  their  brutal  creeds 


THE  LOST  GENIUS.  125 

To  those  who  thrive  on  Superstition's  wiles; 
Who  cloak  in  cant  their  dragon  deeds, 
And  secret  woo  soft  Pleasure's  smiles. 

From  his  very  boyhood  days 

Fame  had  been  his  constant  dream. 

While  his  glad  comrades  wrought  their  idle  plays 

He  drew  apart,  and  beside  some  lonely  stream, 

With  pensive  brow  and  absent  air, 

Depicted  in  his  burning  brain 

Broad  fields  illumed  with  battle's  glare. 

And  swept  with  Death's  relentless  rain, 

And  rocking  'neath  the  terrible  tread 

Of  charging  lines,  and  the  deafening  roar 

Of  black  artillery,  while  the  hot  sunlight  shed 

A  spectral  splendor  o'er  the  realm  of  gore. 

And  foremost  'mong  the  reckless  riders  there, 

Guiding  the  van  with  impetuous  mein, 

And  wresting  victory  from  despair, 

His  own  wild  form  was  seen. 

And  then  he  dreamed  of  triumphal  cheers, 

And  the  foe's  imposing  might  o'erthrown, 

The  applause  of  millions  in  their  joyous  tears, 


126  THE   LOST  GENIUS. 

And  Fame's  unfading  laurels  all  his  own. 
And  o'er  and  o'er  his  dream  he  dreamed, 
As  time  waned  on  from  year  to  year, 
And  yet  such  dazzling  glory  farther  seemed 
At  every  step,  until  a  sickly  fear 
O'ercame  him,  and  faith  was  lost,  and  pride 
Taught  him  to  despise  the  deeds  he  'd  done, 
And  in  high  contempt  to  fling  aside 
The  humble  chaplets  he  had  won, 
And  then  in  brightness  woman  came 
To  plunge  his  blasted  days  in  deeper  shame. 
Oh !  then  had  but  some  fierce  colossal  strife 
Strewn  thick  the  land  with  mangled  clay, 
How  grandly  had  he  sold  his  wasted  life 
But  to  have  led  the  shock    on    some  immortal 
day! 

I  cannot  believe  that  men  can  fail 

When  every  hope  is  centered  on  undying  fame, 

And  the  strong  soul,  like  a  warrior  clad  in  mail, 

Scorns  before  a  barrier  to  quail 

Until  is  reached  its  god -like  aim. 


THE   LOST  GENIUS.  127 

And  yet  how  few  e'er  find  the  fields  of  high  em 
prise 

Whereon  to  charm  the  noisy  crowds  they  secretly 
despise? 

So  life  an  utter  curse  had  grown, 

And  death  was  the  surgery  he  chose 

To  cure  its  ills  ;  no  coward  moan 

Escaped  his  lips  at  thought  of  vile  repose  ; 

No  shudder  marked  the  deed  a  gloomy  crime 

To  mar  eternities  of  after  time  ; 

But  sternly  and  calmly  he  cast  up  the  sum 

Of  existence,  and  the  gloomy  balance  drew, 

Whereat  Conscience'  lips  were  dumb, 

Or  owned  the  dreadful  reckoning  true. 


ON  A   FRIEND'S  MARRIAGE. 

T^AREWELL,  thou  fool,  to  lawless  Miss, 

And  welcome  now  the  fangs  of  Care  ; 
Thy  pay  —  a  cold  embrace  and  lifeless  kiss, 

And  charms  that  Time  will  soon  impair, 
Or  wantonness  betray  for  gold 

To  hated  foe  or  mouthing  friend, 
For  since  the  serpent's  feat  of  old, 

What  dame  to  folly  will  not  bend  ? 
And  since  Ambition  hath  roused  thy  brain, 

And  fame  hath  been  thy  lofty  goal, 
Dream  not  thy  glorious  dreams  again, 

Nor  fire  again  thy  longing  soul, 
But  like  a  giant  in  affray, 

Cast  prostrate  in  his  shame, 
Behold  thy  future  fade  away  — 

What  hath  a  slave  to  do  with  fame  ? 

128 


ON  A    FRIEND'S  MARRIAGE.  129 

O,  bright  and  golden  youth  ! 

Each  sunny  hour  enthroned  in  bliss ! 
How  can  it  be  that  fools  will  throw 

Thy  peerless  glories  down  for  this  ? 

9 


LINES. 


)r  I  ^  IS  sad  to  wake  from  some  delicious  trance, 

And  find  its  baseless  splendors  fled  ; 
'T  is  sad  to  meet  some  dear,  familiar  glance, 

And  find  its  soul  of  love  is  dead  ; 
'T  is  sad  to  see  a  noble  bark 

Go  down  amid  the  sea ; 
'T  is  sad  to  sit  and  silent  mark 

A  well  loved  spirit  flee  ; 
'T  is  sad  to  see  a  gallant  band 

Close  round  a  leader  tried, 
And  see  the  foe,  with  potent  hand, 

O'erwhelm  them  in  their  pride  ; 
'T  is  sad  to  see  a  dauntless  form 

Guide  conquest  on  its  way, 
And  pass  unscathed  amid  the  storm, 

To  fall  at  close  of  day ; 
'T  is  sad  in  indigence  to  feel 


LINES.  131 


The  sting  of  Fortune's  bitter  frown, 
Nor  hope  to  make  the  rabble  kneel 

Before  your  genius  and  renown  ; 
'T  is  sad  to  see  the  crumbling  wall 

Where  childhood's  home  hath  been ; 
"Tis  sad  to  see  a  dear  one  fall, 

And  feel  your  own  the  sin. 


ALL  IS    VANITY. 

T  T  EAP  high  your  piles  of  massive  stone, 
*-  Pursue  your  dreams  of  golden  lust, 

Time  will  claim  them  all  his  own, 

And  strew  your  gods  in  crumbling  dust. 

132 


AT  NIAGARA. 

ON,  wild  waters,  with  your  flight  — 
I  glory  in  your  sullen  power, 
Your  grand  contempt  of  human  might, 
Your  untamed  strength,  your  splendid  dower 
Of  fierce  beauty,  more  winning  far 
Than  woman  in  her  rarest  hour. 
Who  can  stay  you  ?     Who  can  bar 
Your  headlong  tides,  when  mortals  cower, 
Struck  deep  with  awe,  appalled  with  fear, 
E'en  at  your  voice  ? 
Rejoice,  O,  roaring  floods,  rejoice  ! 
Speak  till  the  bending  heavens  hear ! 
Proclaim  yourselves  !     Hurl  swift  your  sounds 
To  earth's  remotest  walls, 
For  Man  is  but  the  worm  that  crawls 
In  the  sun's  glare  for  a  brief  day, 
But  you  endure  alway. 
Time,  for  you,  prescribes  no  bounds. 

138 


FATE. 

T  TS  very  accident  of  will  is  law, 

A     And  yet,  while  kingdoms  crumble  at  its  beck 

And  fill  a  startled  world  with  awe, 

It  flings  aside  the  mighty  wreck 
Mayhap  with  cunning  hand  to  turn 

The  humble  chances  of  some  laison  low, 
To  teach  some  trustful  heart  to  burn, 

Or  guide  fond  Faith  adown  the  steeps  of  woe ; 
Or  yet  to  balk  some  well-laid  scheme 

With  deep  damnation  fraught, 
Or  blast  some  sweet  and  lotus  dream, 

Or  mar  same  trebly  subtle  plot. 


134 


UNDINE. 

\  T  7ITH  the  northern  summer's  heat  oppressed, 

Undine  had  left  her  curtained  bed, 
And,  wrapped  in  sweetest  dreams  of  rest, 
Where  murmuring  breezes  ceaseless  shed 
A  flood  of  coolness  o'er  her  pillows  low, 
Gliding  about  her  with  daintiest  care, 
Kissing  away  her  beauty's  glow, 
Moving  and  fretting  her  golden  hair, 
Unmarred,  she  lay,  by  shroud  or  robe, 
And  bathed  in  a  sea  of  Luna's  light, 
Like  some  wandering  spirit  of  a  heavenly  globe 

Outwearied  with  her  measureless  flight. 

#  *  *  *      .          * 

While  thus  appealing  to  the  rarest  taste 

Of  noblest  flighted  minds,  in  its  beauty  chaste, 

Its  voluptuous  contour  stealthily  stole 

Upon  the  startled  senses  with  a  delicious  might 

185 


136  UNDINE. 

To  o'erpower  the  idolatrous  soul 

Like  distant  music  on  a  lovely  night. 

*  *  *  *  * 

Ah  !  what  a  mellow  fruit  upon  a  tempting  tree, 
Full  ripened  for  a  lawless  hand ! 
What  a  stately  bark  upon  a  placid  sea, 
Drifting  toward  the  rocks  and  sand  ! 
What  a  chafing  steed  upon  a  desert  free, 
Neighing  its  rider  with  loud  command ! 
What  a  blown,  unrivalled  rose  to  be 
Wasting  on  the  breezes  bland  ! 
What  a  diamond  on  a  barren  waste, 
Courting  the  beams  of  a  tell-tale  sun ! 
What  a  nectar  cup  for  the  gods  to  taste ! 

What  a  voluptuous  sprite  to  be  undone  ! 

*  *  *  *  # 

Once  more  he  sought  her  side,  and  kneeling  low, 

Pressed  on  her  cherry  lips,  so  warmly  fresh, 

A  long  impassioned  kiss,  whose  fervor  seemed  to 

flow 

From  heart,  and  mind,  and  blood  and  flesh. 
Bewildered,  Undine  woke,  but  ere  her  wild  alarm 
Could  ring  upon  the  midnight  air, 


UNDINE.  137 

Successive  kisses  robbed  her  lips  of  harm. 
And  smothered  danger  in  its  rosy  lair. 
And  as  floating  on  the  breathless  hour 
Like  the  gentle  notes  of  an  angel's  knell, 
Came  the  silver  strokes  from  the  distant  tower, 
The  sweet  and  hapless  Undine  fell. 


PROSE. 


STORMY  TIMES    ON   THE  VERDiaREE. 


(Originally  published  in  "  Chamber f  Journal,"  Edinburgh.} 

r  I  "'HERE  were  stormy  times  on  the  Verdigree. 
The  redskins  had  sent  us  their  ultimatum. 
There  sat  their  Envoy  Extraordinary,  half  naked, 
on  his  mangy  steed,  armed  and  equipped  for  war, 
and  erect  and  imperturbable  as  Bismarck.  The 
noon -day  breeze  just  moved  his  trailing  scalp- 
lock,  else  he  might  have  passed  for  a  painted 
statue.  Herndon  sat  on  a  hewn  slab  of  oak,  beat 
ing  the  long  roll  with  the  fragments  of  a  broken 
ramrod,  and  laughingly  commanded  us  to  fall  into 
line.  But  we  had  no  trifling  matter  before  us. 
That  morning  at  sunrise  we  had  spurred  our  ponies 
into  the  clear  flowing  waters  of  the  Verdigree, 
floundered  across  to  the  opposite  side,  and  after 
exploring  one  of  the  wildest  solitudes  of  one  of 

141 


142     STORMY  TIMES  ON   THE    VERDIGREE. 

the  loveliest  valleys  of  the  West,  had  each  selected 
a  prolific  tract  of  land,  and  determined  to  settle 
there  for  life.  And  at  that  very  moment  we  were 
about  to  erect  the  first  of  our  cabins.  The  jealous 
Osages  had  resented  our  summary  proceeding, 
however,  and  had  dispatched  us  a  peremptory 
summons  to  retire  across  the  river,  or  pay  the  pen 
alty  of  non-compliance  with  our  lives.  They  de 
manded  instant  obedience. 

"  Won't  you  just  be  kind  enough  to  ride  out  to 
that  there  mound  there  ? "  said  Ben,  the  black- 
moustached  Missourian,  to  the  vermilion  -  daubed 
savage,  who  partially  understood,  English.  "  We 
want  to  talk  this  here  thing  over  a  little."  And 
he  pointed  to  a  spot  about  thirty  yards  distant,  as 
though  he  expected  his  request  to  be  immediately 
complied  with.  The  Indian  nodded,  wheeled  his 
charger  gracefully,  and  obeyed  without  a  word. 

Our  whole  civil  and  military  force  had  been 
mustered  for  the  occasion.  There  were  six  of  us, 
and  we  were  all  young  and  vigorous.  Every  man 
had  "  seen  service,"  and  the  roughest  kind  at  that. 
We  held  an  impromptu  council  of  war. 


STORMY    TIMES  ON  THE   VERDIGREE.      143 

"  What  do  you  think  we'd  better  do,  boys?" 
inquired  Ben,  quietly. 

A  silence  ensued.  Each  waited  for  the  other 
to  speak  first.  At  last  the  "Texican"  ventured 
his  opinion.  What  his  true  name  was  I  never 
learned.  He  was  a  native  of  Texas.  From 
"  Texan,"  the  frontier  lingo  had  metamorphosed 
his  title  into  "  Texican,"  and  by  that  anomalous 
sobriquet  we  knew,  respected,  and  called  him. 

kt  I  'm  in  for  a  fight,  boys,"  said  he.  "  This  here 
land  ca  n't  be  beat.  It 's  as  much  ours  as  it 's 
theirn,  and  it  would  n't  look  well,  no  how,  for  us 
to  give  in  to  'em  at  a  jump.  They  ain't  give  us  a 
decent  invitation  to  leave.  The  Comanches  burnt 
a  sister  of  mine,  three  year  ago  last  fall,  down  on 
the  old  Texas  line,  and  I  ain't  forgot  it,"  and  with 
a  grating  oath  he  swore  he  'd  "  die  in  his  boots 
before  he  'd  get  out  of  the  way  for  a  set  of  greasy 
Osages.  He  shot  'em,  any  how,  every  chance  he 
got." 

"  You  just  settle  the  matter  for  yourselves, 
boys,  whatever  it 's  to  be,"  interposed  the  Mis- 
sourian,  leaning  his  chin  upon  his  hand  as  though 


144      STORMY  TIMES  ON  THE    VERDIGREE. 

nothing  more  than  an  every -day  occurrence  was 
being  debated  —  as  though  a  mere  deal  in  "  poker" 
was  to  be  decided. 

"  It 's  all  very  well  to  talk  about  fighting  it  out/' 
remarked  Colton,  "  and  it 's  likely  that  we  've  got 
as  much  sand  in  our  craws  as  most  folks,  but  what 
can  six  of  us  do  against  three  or  four  hundred  ? 
The  game  is  all  in  their  own  hands,  and  they 
know  it.  I  had  all  the  fighting  I  wanted  in  the 
army,  and  do  n't  want  any  more  of  it  if  I  can  de 
cently  help  it.  We  might  throw  our  logs  together 
and  hold  our  own  till  morning,  but  it  would  turn 
out  an  ugly  scrape  before  we  got  through  with  it. 
We  'd  soon  get  out  of  rations,  and  we  ain't  got  a 
drop  of  water  ahead,  and  they  'd  dance  over  our 
bones  before  to  -  morrow  night.  If  the  rest  of  you 
want  to  fight,  though, —  fight  it  is.  I  won't  show 
the  white  feather." 

He  was  a  young  Minnesotian,  and  the  frontiers 
men  credited  him  with  being  "  as  cool  as  a  wedge, 
and  sharper  than  steel." 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  'm  in  for,"  said  "  Ohio." 
"  We  're  all  old  vets  at  this  military  business,  and 


STORMY    TIMES  ON  THE   VERDIGREE.      145 

we  want  to  use  a  little  strategy.  We  can  't  fight 
all  of  'em,  and  we  want  to  come  it  over  'em  some 
way.  It  's  better  for  even  one  of  us  to  be  killed 
than  for  all  of  us,  for  T  do  n't  feel  like  falling  back 
without  burning  some  powder,  myself,  after  the 
way  we  've  been  talked  to.  I  move  that  we  pick 
our  man  and  they  pick  theirs,  and  let  the  two 
shoot  it  out.  If  their  man  wins,  we  '11  evacuate  ; 
if  ours  wins,  we  '11  stay." 

This  was  a  novel  proposition,  and  suited  every 
one.  Herndon,  however,  thought  our  champion 
should  be  selected  by  lot,  and  that  the  fight 
should  be  with  rifles  at  twenty  paces. 

The  amendment  was  considered  still  better. 
We  all  cordially  agreed.  Ben  motioned  impor 
tantly  to  the  Envoy.  That  nude  personage  rode 
forward  gravely,  received  the  reply  with  haughty 
decorum,  and  was  out  of  sight  in  a  minute. 

"  We  'd  better  load  up  in  the  mean  time,  boys," 
suggested  "  Ohio,"  "  for  if  it  do  n't  suit  'em, 
they  '11  be  after  us  in  short  order." 

The  idea  was  voted  "  not  bad,"  and  we  not  only 
charged  our  rifles  and  revolvers,  but  flung  our  logs 
10  


146      STORMY  TIMES  ON  THE    VERDIGREE. 

together  in  such  a  manner  as  to  form  a  very 
efficient  defence.  Herndon  then  kindled  a  fire, 
and  commenced  cooking  dinner.  In  about  fifteen 
minutes  the  same  Indian  again  galloped  up.  Our 
proposition  had  met  with  much  favor,  he  informed 
us,. but  would  only  be  accepted  on  condition  that 
the  distance  should  be  shortened  to  ten  paces,  and 
that  the  contest  should  continue  until  one  of  the 
principals  was  slain  ;  and  that  whether  theirs  was 
slain  or  not,  if  ours  was  slain  we  should  retire. 

"  That 's  pretty  close  quarters,  boys,"  exclaimed 
Ben.  "  I  got  a  scar  once  on  about  such  a  time 
table.  But  I  guess  it's  all  right.  They  know 
they  can 't  shoot  with  us.  Give  'em  a  square 
deal." 

To  this  we  all  assented.  The  messenger  then 
stated  that  within  an  hour  the  warriors  of  his  band 
would  assemble  at  an  eminence  half  a  mile  distant, 
which  he  pointed  out,  and  that  we  would  be  there 
and  then  expected.  We  promised  punctuality, 
and  he  rode  off  at  a  gallop. 

Next  came  the  task  of  casting  lots  for  the  post 
of  peril.  It  was  a  solemn  moment,  for  no  one 


STORMY    TIMES  ON  THE   VERDIGREE.      147 

could  predict  the  result  of  the  coming  encounter. 
"  ( )hio"  plainly  wrote  each  man's  name  on  a  slip 
of  paper  torn  from  one  of  his  mother's  letters,  and 
placed  the  scraps  in  a  hat.  "  Texican  "  was  blind 
folded  and  deputed  to  draw  for  us.  Whosoever's 
name  was  on  the  slip  he  drew  was  to  be  our  cham 
pion.  He  drew  his  own. 

"  It 's  all  right,  boys,"  said  he,  earnestly,  when 
the  result  was  announced.  "  You  could  n't  please 
me  better." 

Then  ensued  a  long  period  of  silence,  for  we  all 
had  our  misgivings.  No  unmanly  bravado  was  in 
dulged  in.  We  dispatched  our  dinner  as  soon  as 
possible,  smoked  quietly  for  a  few  moments,  and 
then  reticently  mounted  our  ponies. 

On  arriving  at  the  place  designated,  we  found 
the  Osages  in  readiness,  armed  and  painted.  Two 
lances  were  stuck  in  the  ground,  ten  paces  apart, 
to  mark  the  positions  of  the  principals.  "  Texican," 
rifle  in  hand,  walked  calmly  forward  to  the  nearest 
one.  In  a  few  moments  a  tall  young  brave  stepped 
from  among  the  throng  of  savages,  and  stalked 
proudly  up  to  the  other.  Herndon  was  then  re- 


148     STORMY  TIMES  ON   THE    VERDIGREE. 

quested  to  stand  half  way  between  them,  and,  in 
order  not  to  disturb  the  accuracy  of  their  aim,  to 
stand  only  one  pace  back  from  the  line  of  fire.  He 
was  to  give  the  signal  at  the  proper  time.  He  ac 
cepted  the  appointment  without  a  pang  of  trepida 
tion.  There  was  no  danger  of  being  hit  by  such 
marksmen  as  they  were.  In  his  right  hand  he  held 
a  gaudy  scarf.  When  he  raised  it  they  were  to 
aim,  and  when  he  dropped  it  they  were  to  fire. 

And  then  we  waited  for  Black  Dog,  the  chief 
of  the  clan.  It  was  an  impressive  scene.  "  Tex- 
ican "  leaned  his  shaggy  chin  upon  the  muzzle  of 
his  long  rifle,  and  with  a  gleam  of  malicious 
triumph,  glared  fiercely  across  at  his  foe.  He  felt 
sure  of  his  prey,  for  his  aim  was  death.  The  young 
Indian  seemed  to  read  his  thoughts,  but  stood 
erect  with  a  careless  and  stoical  indifference,  and 
gazed  dreamily  off  to  the  southward  where  the 
long  blue  lines  of  timber  were  lost  in  the  misty 
beauty  of  the  horizon.  There  was  a  tinge  of  sad 
ness  in  his  eye.  Was  he  thinking  of  the  happy 
hunting  grounds  ?  The  other  four  of  us  stood  in 
a  cluster,  rifles  in  hand,  a  little  to  the  left  of  our 


STORMY  TIMES  ON  THE    VERDIGREE.     149 

champion,  and  narrowly  watched  all  that  trans 
pired,  for  we  were  vigilantly  on  our  guard  against 
treachery. 

Presently  Black  Dog  emerged  from  a  rude  lodge 
near  by,  and  clad  in  long  robes  of  fur,  moved 
with  stately  presence  to  the  front  line  of  his 
people.  With  a  dignified  wave  of  the  hand,  he 
signified  his  pleasure  that  the  tragedy  begin.  Each 
principal  examined  the  tube  of  his  rifle,  and  nodded 
to  Herndon.  He  raised  the  scarf  quickly.  They 
coolly  took  aim.  He  dropped  the  scarf.  Two 
sharp  reports  rang  out  almost  simultaneously. 
The  young  warrior  sprang  wildly  into  the  ah', 
flung  his  weapon  fully  twenty  feet  away,  and 
dropped  dead  at  his  post.  The  bullet  had  crashed 
through  his  brain.  "  Texican"  thudded  the  butt 
of  his  rifle  on  the  turf,  and  gave  vent  to  a  hoarse, 
gutteral,  choking,  satirical,  and  half  demoniac  cry 
of  triumph  and  revenge.  Then  he  tried  to  steady 
himself  with  his  weapon,  but  staggered  blindly 
backward.  Herndon  and  "Ohio"  ran  up  and 
caught  him  in  their  aims.  His  red  shirt  rapidly 
de  epened  in  hue,  and  a  dreadful  alarm  seized  us. 


150     STORMY  TIMES  ON   THE    VERDIGREE. 

Still  he  laughed  madly,  and  pointed  to  the  motion 
less  corpse  of  his  adversary.  We  hurriedly  gath 
ered  around  him,  and  tenderly  as  children  laid  him 
down  upon  the  soft  green  grass.  Tearing  open 
his  shirt,  we  found  a  terrible  wound  in  his  left 
breast,  in  the  region  of  the  heart.  None  of  us 
were  surgeons.  We  could  not  mention  in  scientific 
terms  just  what  particular  veins  and  ligaments 
had  been  severed ;  but  we  knew  by  the  location 
of  the  wound,  and  by  his  parched  lips  and  glazing 
eye,  that  death  was  upon  him. 

"  It 's  all  day  with  me,  boys,"  he  faintly  said, 
for  he  grew  wonderfully  weaker  every  moment ; 
"  but  I  've  paid  'em  magnificent  for  it.  Give  my 
rifle  to  Colton." 

We  bent  over  the  poor  fellow  with  words  of 
sympathy  and  praise  on  our  lips,  and  our  enemies 
might  have  shot  us  all  down  without  resistance. 
But  it  was  of  no  use.  His  breath  quickly  came 
and  went.  "  Water,"  at  length,  he  groaned.  We 
had  none,  and  there  was  not  a  brook  anywhere  in 
the  vicinity.  An  Indian  girl  comprehended  what 
was  wanted,  and  running  to  a  tent,  returned  in  a 


STORMY  TIMES  ON  THE    VER'DIGREE.     151 

moment  with  a  skin -bag  full.  We  plaoedHKe 
cooling  fluid  to  the  sufferer's  burning  lips,  and  he 
took  a  long  draught.  It  choked  him,  and  he 
vomited  up  a  handful  of  bright  crimson  blood. 
We  had  seen  too  many  men  perish  not  to  knoxv 
by  this  that  the  hissing  lead  had  pierced  his  vitals. 
He  was  bleeding  internally.  As  soon  as  he  could 
clear  his  throat  to  speak,  he  said  feebly  and  almost 
breathlessly : 

"  Do  n't  you  try  to  revenge  me,  boys.  Honor 
bright.  They  've  done  the  fair  thing  with  us. 
Promise  to  act  the  man  with  them.  Cross  the 
river  to-day.  Do  n't  forget  —  the  — Texican  !" 

The  last  words  were  rendered  almost  unintel 
ligible  from  the  blood  that  began  to  gather  iiuhis 
throat.  A  film  obscured  his  sight. 

"Where  are  my  friends?"  he  gasped  piteously. 
"Don't  leave  me  to  die  alone,  boys!"  and:  he 
clutched  at  us  nervously. 

"  We  're  with  you  to  the  last,  old  fellow,"  ex 
claimed  Colton,  with  emotion,  turning  His  head 
away  to  hide  the  tears,  and  clasping  the  hand  of 
the  dying  man.  He  may  have  been  faint-hearted, 


152      STORMY  TIMES  ON  THE    VERDIGREE. 

but  we  did  not  think  so.  Soon  "  Texican  "  groaned 
almost  inaudibly,  gasped  in  pain,  a  shudder  passed 
over  him,  and  he  was  dead. 

Even  the  stony-hearted  savages  seemed  touched 
by  the  distressing  incidents  of  this  sanguinary 
drama.  Few  of  them  could  speak  even  broken 
English,  but  such  as  could,  advanced  towards  us, 
and  by  the  aid  of  signs,  endeavoured  to  inform  us 
that  their  champion  had  expected  to  die,  and  they 
urged  that  it  would  be  fitting  to  entomb  two  such 
brave  men  together.  We  received  their  strangely 
chivalrous  proposal  in  the  spirit  with  which  it  was 
tendered.  With  their  tomahawks  they  excavated 
a  grave,  and  wrapping  the  combatants  in  the  rich 
furs  of  the  chieftain,  we  laid  them  down  to  rest 
side  by  side  —  friend  and  foe  alike  lamented.  Then 
heaping  a  great  pile  of  stones  above  them,  to  baffle 
the  efforts  of  prowling  wolves,  we  fired  a  volley 
in  the  air,  and  with  heavy  hearts  departed.  And 
there  they  slumber  still.  One  died  for  his  friends, 
and  the  other  for  the  honor  of  his  tribe.  The 
wistful  summer  winds  sigh  a  sad  requiem  above 
the  spot  of  their  long  repose  ;  the  wild  flowers 


STORMY  TIMES  ON  THE    VERDIGREE.      153 

blossom  in  vernal  profusion  around  it ;  and  the 
showers  of  heaven  impartially  descend  upon  the 
soft  verdure  that  greenly  enshrines  it. 


BREVITIES. 

HEROES   make   magnificent   boasts,   and   then 
fulfill  them. 


MOST  women  wish  they  were  men. 


FEMALE  modesty  is  more  often  a  veil  to  conceal 
blemishes  than  beauties. 


WE  find  friends  in  proportion  as  we  are  situated 
to  serve  them. 


THERE  is  nothing  so   grand  as  a  truly  great 
man. 


IT  is  when  we  are  happiest  that  we  look  for 
ward  to  the  future  with  the  most  eager  anticipa 
tions. 


THE  way  to  win  promotion  is  to  deserve  it,  and 
then  to  demand  it. 


A  POET  should  aim  at  absolute  perfection.  He 
should  write,  not  that  men  may  tolerate,  but  that 
they  may  admire. 


164 


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